


cherry blight

by bytheinco_nstantmoon



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: (me) - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Bisexuality, Do Not Trust The Government They Are Shady as Hell, Getting to Know Each Other, How Do I Tag, I LOVE HER SO MUCH, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Internalized Homophobia, Multi, Nancy Wheeler has ADHD, Nonbinary Character, Not Really Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Pining, Polyamory, Recreational Drug Use, Smoking, actually they haven't smoked weed yet but im sure i'll write a scene where they do, anyway, but he is trying his best, but like THEY dont know hes not dead so do i tag it???, but like it's the 80s so in a vague and confusing way, but no yeah the target audience is one (1) man, cherry coke, duffers stop ignoring the rat king 2k20, ergo.... hell, ft joyces nicotine addiction, fuck the rain man, god that woman needs therapy, gotta keep up my brand, gratuitous use of the same motifs, hint hint its because they dont give him anything he deserves, honestly at this point this is just my hyperfixation fic, i add them into the tags bc their friendship is IMPORTANT, i am here to provide her rights, i have mentioned the weed!! i knew i'd live up to my brand, i should make that a tag, im feeling kinda soft let me be, jon goes to the upside down instead of will, jon has more friends in the first 6 chapters of this than all 3 seasons, joyce and karen and hopper deserve better!!!!!, like if you enjoy it thats amazing, like we all know he's not dead bc we watched the show, look i honestly dont fucking know anymore, nancy and barb are bicons together and you can't take that away from me shut up, presumably as we r all on the archive, reconnection, teenage relationships, the inherent tenderness of friendship!!!!!, there was no reason to tag that except i made it a motif, unhinged headcanons rights, wow i wonder why
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:35:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 66,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26078086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bytheinco_nstantmoon/pseuds/bytheinco_nstantmoon
Summary: "Why didn't Jonathan pick him up, then?"And isn't that question of the day?-Jonathan never took that second shift. It doesn't fix anything.-His car is gone.
Relationships: Barbara "Barb" Holland & Nancy Wheeler, Barbara "Barb" Holland & Nancy Wheeler & Steve Harrington & Tommy Hagan & Carol Perkins, Jonathan Byers & Eleven | Jane Hopper, Jonathan Byers & Heather Holloway, Jonathan Byers & Joyce Byers & Will Byers, Jonathan Byers/Steve Harrington/Nancy Wheeler, Joyce Byers & Jim "Chief" Hopper & Karen Wheeler, Joyce Byers & Karen Wheeler, Karen Wheeler & Nancy Wheeler, Nancy Wheeler & Eleven | Jane Hopper, Tommy Hagan & Steve Harrington & Carol Perkins, Tommy Hagan/Carol Perkins, Tommy Hagan/Carol Perkins/Barbara "Barb" Holland, Will Byers & Dustin Henderson & Lucas Sinclair & Mike Wheeler, Will Byers & Nancy Wheeler
Comments: 58
Kudos: 105





	1. the peeling paint

**Author's Note:**

> NO i shouldn't be starting another multichapter yes i am starting another multichapter and yes im still gay

So, this is the prologue.

-

"That'll be- Jonathan?" She doesn't mean to sound so surprised, and curses herself internally for it. Jonathan leans against the counter and raises an eyebrow; for a moment, he looks so much like the mirror that it hurts, but then his bangs fall back in his eyes and he leaves them there, and Joyce's heart hurts instead over how small he seems. "God, honey, you look like a mess." She can't keep the concern out of her voice.

Jonathan just shrugs and refuses to meet her eyes. "Yeah. It's pouring out there." He nudges the cigarettes and can of Coke across the counter a little further. "I'm gonna pick up Will," he adds. His voice is distant. Joyce's concern heightens, but she only nods and rings him up.

"Four seventeen. I thought you didn't like the cherry kind," she says, gesturing to the can.

Jonathan ducks his head. It doesn't hide the small smile that quirks at the edge of his mouth, though, and Joyce has to raise an eyebrow at that. "It's not so bad." He shoves the cigarettes in his pocket. She doesn't wince because she's not a hypocrite, but she almost does because she's a mother.

"I'll be home at nine."

"I'll pick up Will," he repeats. "Bye, Mom."

His voice is odd. It makes her throat feel thick, somehow. "Bye, honey."

The door bangs shut behind him. It takes Joyce a few minutes to get back into the mundane routine of work again.

-

The phone rings at ten and jolts her awake. She stumbles up from the kitchen table, trying not to be too loud, and grabs it off the hook. "Hello?"

"Joyce?"

"Karen!" She lets her shoulders relax a bit. "Why are you calling? God, it's late, is- is something wrong?"

There's a pause. Joyce's pulse spikes for a reason she can't quite grasp, hammering against her ribs. There's something off kilter; the house is silent and the world is dark and something, somewhere isn't in its place.

Karen sounds cautiously confused when she finally speaks. "Joyce," she repeats. "I was just calling about Will? Mike said they had planned a sleepover, but we usually say no sleepovers on school nights-"

"He's still there?" Joyce interrupts sharply, and her heart is beating so fast her ribs hurt from the inside. "I thought he was in bed, I-" she forces herself to take a deep breath. "Jonathan was supposed to pick him up."

The line is silent. Then Karen says, "I haven't seen Jonathan tonight," and Joyce feels something come crashing down.

(Everything. But she doesn't know that yet.)

-

His car is gone.

"Don't tell Will. Not yet."

-

Karen takes a deep breath in the mirror. Her lipstick is the wrong color. It's too red; she doesn't wear it this dark on normal days. But it's already on and her hands are shaking too badly to do it all over again, so she flips the light off and heads downstairs.

The bacon is sizzling in the pan as Will comes down, ruffled with sleep, and slides into a chair at the kitchen table. She gives him a gentle smile and earns a wide grin in return.

When Nancy was little, six and seven and eight, she would drag Jonathan home with her sometimes on their bikes after school; the two of them would play in the backyard or in her room for hours and hours, and Karen would always ruffle his hair and get a grin from him. She remembers those blinding smiles more than anything else.

Will looks just like Jonathan in that moment, and she has to turn away.

She serves him four pieces of bacon instead of three and his face lights up. Karen has always worried a bit about how thin the boy is. She doesn't mention it, because she knows Joyce feels judged for their money enough already, but he's so little, and she doesn't know how to stop worrying. "Is Mike awake?"

He finishes chewing before he answers, which is oddly adorable for a twelve year old boy. "Yeah. He said he'd be down soon." She glances at the clock and pulls out toaster waffles. She doesn't have the steady eye for homemade right now.

She shouldn't be so worried. Jonathan is sixteen, after all. He might be any number of places. It's not above suspicion that a sixteen year old boy lied to his mother about where he would go. So Karen's hands shouldn't be shaking as she gets the orange juice out.

Except Jonathan wouldn't lie about getting Will. Jonathan would never lie about Will.

Mike comes clamoring downstairs soon enough and steals a bite of Will's Eggos. He lets Will get away with stealing two bites from him, though, so she just shakes her head fondly and asks him how he slept. Somehow, this launches the boys into a description of their game last night, and she tries to keep up as she moves about the kitchen. There's definitely something about goblins? She's got the goblins.

"Morning, dweeb," Nancy greets as she comes in, and then amends it to "dweebs," when she sees Will. He waves. Mike rolls his eyes and mumbles something around the bacon in his mouth that's either a greeting or a curse. "Morning, Mom." Karen responds with a tight hug.

God, if she couldn't find Nancy-

"You ok?"

"Yes," she says automatically, letting go. She can't help herself from petting Nancy's hair a few times, though. Just to reassure herself. "Yes, I'm ok. Did you sleep well?"

Nancy nods as she pulls the fridge open. "Yeah, I guess. I was supposed to work on my history project last night, but my partner never called, so." She shrugged, pulling a half-empty can of Cherry Coke from the door and kicking it shut. "I'll talk to him at school today, I guess. I really need a good grade on that."

Karen hands Will his orange juice and starts the coffee maker. "You have a 96 in the class." Nancy just shrugs. Karen wants to reprimand her on drinking soda for breakfast, but she finds her throat oddly stuck, and she says nothing.

Will is laughing at something Mike said, reaching over to shove him lightly, and Mike is grinning back at him like there's nothing else he'd rather be seeing. Mike always grins at Will like that, like he's precious. Will  _ is  _ precious, Karen finds herself thinking, and Jonathan wouldn't lie about him.

She shoos them upstairs to get ready, picking up their plates, but finds that Nancy has only taken a few bites.

She's leaning against the counter again, sipping her Coke. "He never called," she says, and somehow Karen understands that there's something much more intense simmering under her daughter's skin. Something dark under the planes of her face. "I thought maybe he just got caught up with other work. But he didn't, did he?"

"I thought you partnered with Scotty," Karen manages, because she feels like a bug under scrutiny. Nancy wrinkles her nose.

"I switched. Jon doesn't make comments about my bra size."

Karen wrinkles her nose too in response, but her voice is deadly quiet when she replies. "We don't know that he didn't just get caught up, baby."

Nancy looks unconvinced. "Why did Will sleep over?" she asks, and finishes her Coke.

"It was late. Joyce doesn't get off until 9:30. We didn't want him going home so late on a school night." Technically, it's true, minimal liberties taken. But whatever it is that's so dark behind Nancy's eyes doesn't abate, and she knows her daughter can see the tremor of her hands.

When Nancy speaks, it's precise. Measured. "Why didn't Jonathan pick him up, then?"

And isn't that question of the day?

Karen turns to wash her coffee mug and prays the shudder rolling down her spine doesn't give her away. "He was supposed to," she answers after a moment. She can't bring herself to look away from the mug. It's hideous, really, purple and orange and yellow, but Mike made it for her in kindergarten and she uses it every morning. He hates it. "Go get ready for school, Nance."

-

His car is gone.

-

Nancy doesn't expect to see Steve when she slams her locker shut, but lo and behold, there he is, hovering nearby with concern written between his brows. His hair is messed up from the rain, flopping over his forehead, and she has the urge to fix it. Instead, she just stares. He bites his lip, and in some feverish, hysterical flash, Nancy thinks,  _ he looks like Jonathan. _

Immediately, she bursts into tears.

"Shit, Nance-" his hands hover awkwardly, and she takes it as an invitation, nestling herself into his arms. She can feel the students around them staring, but Steve waves them off. "Hey, hey, it's ok- hey, come on, come here-" he ushers her around the corner. The door closes behind them with a quiet click. Nancy clings onto Steve as best she can, still crying, even though she doesn't know why. She shouldn't be crying because of Jonathan. But he never called and he should  _ be _ here. He has to be here.

"I'm sorry," she whispers into Steve's ear. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-" She can't think straight. The bell is ringing, she thinks.

They're going to miss third period. Steve pets her hair. "It's ok, Nance," he says, and she smiles a little into his shirt. Steve makes her smile. She can't help it. Even when Jonathan isn't at school. (Which usually doesn't matter, but today it matters. It fucking  _ matters _ , even if she doesn’t really know why.) "Do you want to talk about it?"

She swallows hard, and then warns, "It's going to sound strange." Her voice is getting steadier. It’s easier to breathe with him holding her like this.

"I'm sure it's not," Steve assures. Nancy snorts before she can help herself. A steadying breath and-

"Jonathan isn't here."

There's a pause.

Steve pulls back a little to see her face. He looks bewildered. "Jonathan Byers?" He sounds like it's the strangest thing he's ever heard, but he doesn't say that, and Nancy is oddly grateful. "Ratboy?"

She's not grateful enough to keep from rolling her eyes and shoving his chest a little. "Don't call him that," she mumbles. Steve kisses her forehead like an apology. "It's just…" she can feel tears picking the back of her eyes again. "We have a partner project in Melvin's. And I was partnered with Scotty, but he was being a creep, so I asked to work with Jonathan, because at least he's not a creep-" she can sense Steve's expression and chooses to ignore it. "And we were going to work on it yesterday! But he had work, so he said he'd call when he got off, and he didn't call!" She takes a breath to calm herself, but her hands are still shaking. (Her mom's hands were shaking this morning, too.) The air feels constrictive. "He just- he didn't show up. He didn't fucking show up! And he didn't come pick up Will either, and he never forgets to pick up Will, and he probably just, like, fell asleep or something, but- but he never, ever forgets Will! And I don't know if I'm worried or if I'm mad but I'm feeling  _ something  _ and it's intense and I'm tired and I had seven cups of coffee so  _ fuck, _ I'm going to cry about it!" She ends it with a punctuating voice crack and immediately buries her head in Steve's shoulder again.

He's quiet for a moment, and Nancy can almost  _ hear  _ the gears turning in his head. "Well," he finally says, and his voice is half-stunned, like he doesn't know what to say. "Well, shit." He falls quiet again. Outside, the rain has picked up again, tapping against the window. It makes a shiver run down Nancy's spine.

"What if he's lost somewhere?" she says suddenly, mostly to break the silence. Her voice is petulant, almost, but she can't help it. "He's got to be soaked by now. It's not good to be out in the rain like that."

Steve just pulls her closer. "Do you want to go check on him, Nance? I can drive you," he offers, and she's never wanted to kiss him more than she does right now. She restrains herself, though, and nods into his shoulder.

The rain keeps tapping at the window.

-

His coffee from yesterday is still in the microwave. He'd woken up late and had to ditch before he could drink it so that they would get to school before the first bell. Joyce takes a sip. It's cold and tastes sort of stale, but the familiar shape of his favourite mug in her fingers is enough to make her eyes sting sharply, and she sets it down. Her hands are shaking. She's gotten two calls from Karen already this morning to check in, and she's going to go insane if she gets another one- who's she kidding? She's going to go insane anyway. She's going to lose her goddamn mind if her boy doesn't come home soon.

Why did he lie about Will?

Joyce lets out a long sigh and closes her eyes and pretends that when she opens them, Jonathan's car will be in the driveway, and he will give her a hug and apologise and explain it all away. But all she gets is the kitchen wall. The paint is peeling.

"Dammit, Jonathan," she whispers, her voice fragile. " _ Damn _ it, honey, where'd you go?"

She almost jumps out of her skin when the light flickers with a short hiss, the sudden, short darkness seeping into her bones like a disease, but it's over in a moment and she closes her eyes again to steady herself. The darkness behind her eyelids is comforting. She's safe when she can't see the world.

The paint is peeling.

Joyce pours the coffee down the sink and dials the station with shaking hands.

-

Their first day without him, it’s raining.

He doesn’t know that.

-

Nancy pushes herself back into the routine of the day admirably, back into the highlighters-and-checklists persona she portrays so well, back into the unruffled girl with the neat ponytail and the 96 in World History. Back into the girl that doesn't panic over Jonathan Byers, and she does it so well that her breakdown in the hallway is almost forgotten aside from a few tossed whispers. Steve takes her hand in the hallway, kisses her outside the lunchroom, and she lets him. She gives them something else to whisper about. (Barb rolls her eyes as if it's a great inconvenience, but Nancy can see the twinge of a smile on her face. She smiles back. And if she looks a little dopey- well. Steve  _ is  _ a great kisser.) She lets Barb pull her to the library after school to study.

(She leaves her history project in her bag.)

She goes home and kisses her dad's cheek with a fake, shiny smile and gives her mom a hug as genuine as she can manage. Karen's hands are still shaking. She wants to ask. But her mom's smile is tight and Nancy’s throat is dry, painfully so, and all she can manage is, "I got an A on my Spanish quiz."

Her mom's face relaxes slightly, and she draws her back in for another hug. A short one, easy to pass off as celebratory if her grip weren't so frantic. "Good job, honey!" Karen’s voice is bright, and it feels almost normal. For a moment, all her panic, all her distress, all the darkness that’s been festering under her ribs all day, seems a bit ridiculous.

It’s okay. An A on a Spanish quiz is enough for now.

So Nancy does her homework and thinks about her Spanish quiz and thinks about Barb getting a pen stuck on her lip in English and thinks about kissing Steve outside the lunchroom. And Nancy doesn’t think about the history project in her bag or the Cherry coke can on her dresser. And she definitely doesn’t think about the stupid boy who gave them to her.

(And when her phone rings,  _ Jonathan? _ is only her first thought by a second or two.)

-

Joyce is slumped at the kitchen table when Will gets home. The door clicks, and there's soft footsteps, and there's a "Jonathan?" followed by a "Oh, Mom, I thought you'd be at- are you crying?" And she is, she realises. She holds her arms out to her youngest and he falls right into them, lets her kiss his head as gently as glass. "What's going on?" He pulls back to look at her, reaches up to tuck the wild stray hairs behind her ear- like Jonathan does when he's calming her down, like Will must have seen him do, and her heart stings all fresh because  _ how could he have lied about Will? _ And because her thoughts have wandered too far today. And because sometimes sixteen year olds go missing for reasons far worse than teenage rebellion. And because there's a thought she can't quite shake, that she refuses to name, that's been hovering in the back of her mind, because she remembers what it was like to be sixteen, what it was like to be so upset you wanted to- "Mom!" Will's hands grip her shoulders. They're so tiny. He's so young. He's too young to be holding her up like this.

God, how could Jonathan have  _ lied? _

"Mom," he says again, and he sounds so scared, the kind of voice that makes her want to wrap him up in her arms as tightly as she can, just to hold him until everything is better. (Had she ever done that for Jonathan? When he looked so sad and tired at night, when he wouldn't meet her eyes, when his smiles got shallow and his shoulders started slumping in on themselves, had she held him? Had she kissed his head as gently as glass and told him she loved him? Did he know how much she loved him?) "Here," and then she was up on her feet, being led out of the kitchen, and Will is leading her down the hall, and she's so fragile that her  _ twelve year old son _ is having to lead her, and she feels a stab of self hatred so deep that she can't breathe. He doesn't even know. She hasn't even told him yet and she isn't quite sure she can. He's only twelve. Surely, surely, he shouldn't go through this yet. Surely she can put this off.

But he'll hate her if she puts it off, Joyce knows. He's twelve, for Christ's sake. Twelve year olds want to know everything. Jonathan lied about Will, but Joyce can't lie to him. He'd hate her. (Did Jonathan hate her?)

"I love you," she finds herself saying, because it's not the son she wants to tell right now but it's as close as she can get. "I couldn't ask for better, I couldn't, I love you so much."

Will just looks confused. "I love you too, Mom," and his voice is still so careful, like he's treading on shattered shells. "What's going on?" She swallows back a sob. "Mom, what's- where's Jonathan?" He looks around, like his brother is standing somewhere unnoticed, confusion creasing his forehead. Joyce can't breathe. "Does- I thought he didn't have work 'til five today?"

"He doesn't have work," Joyce finally manages, because _fuck_ , she still doesn't know how to say it. Will's forehead creases deeper. Joyce swallows through a tight throat and reaches out, runs a shaky hand through his hair. Her baby. God, he's so _little._ She doesn't want to hurt him. Not when she might still be wrong. Not when the foreboding feeling in her gut might only be overactive anxiety. She doesn't want him to panic. She doesn't want him to be like her, she never wants him to be like her, so she takes a deep breath and uses an excuse to preface the worst thing she'll ever have to say. "I'm tired. I-I've been overworked recently, I think? Dead on my feet. Everything feels so… intense." This is the kind of thing she used to say to his brother, and fuck if the look in Will's eyes doesn't make her feel worse. It's the same gentle grief, the kind of pity that isn't really pity. It's how Jonathan always looked at her when she told him this. She feels sick. She doesn't want to replace Jonathan. She just wants to see him again.

"Okay," Will says. His voice is confused, but it's shaking just slightly. She's spreading her darkness to him. She doesn't know how to fix it. She doesn't know how to fix any of this. Will squeezes her hand and says, "Did you need the day off?" and Joyce can't help but feel like she doesn't deserve the look in his eyes.

What kind of mother loses her son?

She squeezes back and takes another breath to steady herself as much as possible. "Yes. Not because I'm- well, I guess it is because I'm stressed, but- how was the Wheeler's?" Will blinks.

"Uh- good?" He frowns. "I wasn't really planning on staying the night, but it was nice. Mrs Wheeler made bacon." They didn't have bacon very often. Jonathan didn't like it. Joyce hates herself for seeing the irony. "She said you couldn't pick me up because you got off too late," Will continues.

She squeezes his hand again. "Yeah. I didn't want you getting home so late." Her voice is steadier now. As steady as she can manage, anyway.

"Yeah," Will echoes, and there's a pause. "Yeah. But why didn't you just ask Jonathan to get me?" Joyce closes her eyes. The steadiness is crumbling again, but she clings to it and clings to his hand.

"He lied," she whispers, and it tastes sick in her throat. "He told me he was getting you."

The room is silent. Will's grip on her hand slackens slowly; she lets it slip away. She can't open her eyes, can't face him, because he's smart enough to understand, and she wants to pretend to be ignorant for a moment longer. She keeps her eyes closed. She's safe when her eyes are closed.

"Where is he?"

He's so small. He shouldn't have to deal with this yet.

Joyce opens her eyes. "I don't know."

-

Look, Steve doesn't know Jonathan. He'd never claim he does. He'd never want to, anyway, but he couldn't. Jonathan's always been someone hovering at the edge of his vision, just outside his periphery. Sort of blurry and unfocused, like a shitty photo. And sure, if he thinks about it, Jonathan's come into a bit of a sharper focus recently. Past four weeks kinda thing. He can remember the curve of his shoulders, the duck of his head, the way he sort of shrinks down away from the world, like he can hide if he just looks away. (He remembers a momentary anger he doesn't understand. Two days ago, in pre-calc, Jonathan ducking his head, looking away from Steve. Looking  _ away.  _ And Steve remembers being angry. But he doesn't think about it. He doesn't understand.) It's a past four weeks kinda thing, seeing Jonathan.

It's a past four weeks kinda thing seeing Nancy, too. He doesn't think about that either.

The point is, Steve doesn't know Jonathan Byers. But apparently Nancy does, and Steve knows Nancy. Or maybe he doesn't. He doesn't think he does, actually, at least as well as he thought he did, but that's not the point.

Scratch all that. It's more like this: Steve has never wanted to know Jonathan Byers. But Steve wants to know Nancy Wheeler so badly it hurts, and Jonathan fucking Byers is part of the deal, and he wishes he were more annoyed about it. (He wishes he hated the guy. Actually, he mostly wishes that he wasn't thinking about the anger in pre-calc two days ago, because it's a confusing kind of feeling and shouldn't he be thinking about… pretty much anything else when he has the prettiest girl in the world sitting in his car beside him?)

"You look nice," he says, mostly for the sake of saying something. Nancy looks over, startled. Steve keeps his eyes on the road. "Your shirt is… it's cute." It's a little button blouse. Blue like her eyes. Not the sort of thing that normally attracts his attention, but somehow stunning when it's on Nancy. Steve is about 99% sure everything is stunning when it's on Nancy. He doesn't know how he feels about feeling that way. He doesn't know much about his feelings recently.

"Thanks." Her voice has a trace of a smile in it, and he feels a little lighter. Things are easier when Nancy is smiling. "Barb says it brings out my eyes."

Steve nods absently. "Left here, right?" he asks, and turns on his blinker when she hums affirmatively. "Barb… Barbara Holland?" He knows Barbara Holland a little bit. They were in band together for like, a year, when he was in seventh grade. He ended up dropping though. Hadn't spoken to her since. Maybe he should ask her how the clarinet is coming. "She's right. Didn't know they could look prettier."

There's a pause. Nancy's voice is quiet when she replies. "You're an idiot, Steve Harrington." It's a fond kind of quiet, though. He thinks.

"You're beautiful, Nancy Wheeler," he says, and pulls to a spot outside of a house he's never been to before. It looks cold. Quiet. Doesn't it get lonely out here in the woods all alone? Maybe he's too much of a suburban kid to get it. Maybe he's out of his depth here. But fuck, Steve thinks he would throw himself into a lot of depths for Nancy Wheeler, so he reaches over to squeeze her hand once before he gets out.

_ You're hiding, Jonathan Byers,  _ he thinks, and it's not the same feeling as pre-calc. Or, well, it is, because it swells in his chest in the same way, crescendos and crests under his skin like a damn tsunami, pushing up against the inside of his chest until his ribs ache from the pressure, but it's not anger. It's a hollow feeling, like a sudden darkness replacing the marrow in his bones.  _ You're hiding, _ he thinks again, and winds his fingers into Nancy's as they head to the door.  _ But I'm not gonna let you hide from me. _


	2. the paradigm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I’m not gonna let you hide from me,_ he thinks again. It’s firm. It’s a promise.
> 
> Is this what Jonathan Byers does to him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to chapter two!! i wrote the second half all in a frenzy yesterday and i'm honestly surprised that it turned out palatable. pretty excited, though! i hope you guys enjoy this.

The second day without him, Nancy Wheeler shows up at her front door, wearing a red jacket and a determined frown. There’s a boy with her, his fingers tangled into hers, that Joyce almost recognises. She’s seen him around, she thinks. She doesn’t know. It’s hard to know anything when she doesn’t know where her boy is.

“Jonathan hasn’t been at school,” Nancy says as soon as the door opens, and there’s something half-desperate behind the certainty of her voice that makes Joyce’s blood chill. “Is he here?” She knows already. Joyce can tell by the hard set of her jaw, the bleak glint in her eyes. The boy is watching her, but his gaze shoots to Joyce when the question is asked. Blue eyes, brown eyes, piercing her; blue and brown and brewing with a quiet dread.

Joyce shakes her head. She can’t speak.

Nancy murmurs, “I told you,” and the boy squeezes her hand tightly. He keeps watching Joyce. His eyes are carving over her like he can peel away the skin and see into her mind, see into the barbed mess of thoughts pricking against the insides of his skull. When he speaks, his voice is gentler than she expects.

“I’m Steve, ma’am. Steve Harrington.” He offers his free hand and she takes it weakly. Steve Harrington. She’s heard Jonathan complain about him before, she thinks, but she can’t really remember what the complaint was. “Do you need us to stay? We can help you out a bit?”

They should be in school. Joyce shouldn’t be encouraging this. But their eyes are so earnest and they came to ask about Jonathan and she… she’s so  _ fragile _ right now that she’s fairly certain she couldn’t have said no. She does need them to stay. She can’t hold herself together alone.

Nancy leads her to the couch carefully, fishing a blanket from some corner to tuck around her shoulders. “Have you had breakfast?” she asks, and at Joyce’s denial Steve chimes in with a, “I’ll make something,” that earns him a thankful kiss from Nancy. His eyes have lit up when she pulls away, a small smile tracing his lips. Joyce almost wants to smile along with him. There’s nothing like young love.

Soon enough, there’s a plate of eggs in front of her- they’re  _ good _ , she’s fairly impressed- and the teens are curled up next to her sharing a mug of tea. The rain is tapping lightly at the windows again. Joyce stares listlessly at the TV as it plays a muted movie Nancy had put in.

“Have you called the police?” The question comes after twenty minutes of this strange, something-like-comforting silence. It’s from Nancy, unsurprisingly. The firm determination hasn’t faded from her eyes since she arrived. “Have they said anything?”

“Just that…” the memory of her conversation with Hopper ignites a flare of bitter anger in Joyce’s stomach. “Just that he’s sixteen. Probably just… taking a hike. Playing hooky.”

There’s a pause.

“Bullshit.” Nancy’s voice is cold.

“Nance-”

“No!” Her face has twisted in a scowl. Joyce’s blood freezes in her veins again. Nancy Wheeler has that effect, apparently. “No, Steve, that’s bullshit! It’s  _ Jonathan _ ! He wouldn’t! You, maybe, or me, but Jonathan isn’t  _ like  _ us. He’s not like any of us. He's not like… most! He wouldn’t do that. I  _ know  _ he wouldn't.” She presses her lips together. The light of the T.V. catches on the tears in the corners of her eyes. “He would have said something,” she adds quietly, so quietly, like she’s not entirely sure.

Steve is slow as he takes her hand, but his steady gaze doesn’t waver. “Nance,” he repeats. It’s gentler this time. Nancy keeps staring straight ahead, her chin trembling. Joyce instinctively scoots closer to rub a comforting hand over the girl’s shoulder. “Look, I know Byers isn’t my friend,” Steve starts, and she snorts. “Yeah. Yes. He hates me. We know. But I think that… you know, I don’t know him, but I could. If I tried harder. I believe that he would want to say something, okay? But do you really think he actually would?”

It’s a good point, Joyce notes distantly. The rain is picking up.

“He was supposed to call,” Nancy says weakly.

“But he didn’t.” Steve lifts her hand slowly and presses an assuring kiss to her knuckles. “Maybe he just needed some time to sort his head out. God knows you don’t get that in Hawkins.” Nancy makes a muffled, pained noise. Her eyes are squeezed shut. “Have a little faith,” Steve says, eyes and voice soft.

_ Have a little faith. _

Maybe Joyce can do that.

-

Jonathan can’t breathe.

He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t-

Turn the corner. Try the door. Back around the corner. Down the hall. Down the hall. Down the hall. Keep going, keep running, keep quiet.

Jonathan can’t breathe.

Turn the corner. Try the door.

Someone is breathing on the other side.

-

“Playing hooky? Really?”

Low heels click from behind him, out of place on the cracked asphalt. Karen has always been out of place on Hopper’s side of Hawkins.

He sighs heavily and takes a long sip of his coffee to psych himself up. “What do you mean?” She doesn’t appreciate that if the narrowing of her eyes is any indication.

“Jonathan Byers.” The name rings bitterly in his ears. He takes another sip of coffee to wash the acrid taste of anxiety from between his teeth. “I’ve known that boy since he was  _ born _ , Jim. This isn’t him.”

Well fuck, if he had a penny for every time he heard that.

“And what do you expect me to do about it?” Hopper snaps. “He’s a good kid, I goddamn know. ‘This isn’t him’ and all that. I’ve heard it from his mother a million times, okay? But knowing something is going on isn’t going to get him back. I don’t know where he is, that’s the whole damn point of this.”

Karen’s face remains unimpressed. “Have you started looking?”

“Have I started-” Hopper pinched his nose between his fingers, taking a deep breath. She’ll drive him to hell, this woman. She’s always been good at it.

Her voice is steely as she repeats her question. “Have you started looking?”

Hopper scowls at her. She just scowls back and waits. Her crisp heel taps impatiently.

Eventually, he grunts out, “Yes,” hoping it’s enough to satisfy her.

It’s not. “Okay. And?”

“And?”

“And did you find anything?”

“Obviously not, Karen!” Hopper feels sort of like his head is about to implode. His teeth are gritted together so hard it hurts. “Look, he’s sixteen, he’s-”

She cuts him off before he can even attempt to placate her. “He’s  _ Jonathan _ , and he’s  _ missing _ , and I swear to  _ God _ if you say he’s sixteen one more time, he won’t be the only one, Hop. You’re right! Knowing something is going on isn’t going to bring him back! Because the only thing that will is you getting your _ shit  _ together and admitting that something is!”

Karen's eyes bore into him a moment longer, burning with a kind of anger Hopper can't really understand. It scalds him all over. Before he can mutter a reply, she spins on her and strides off, her heels clicking sharply against the cracked asphalt.

The sign on Benny’s flickers.

Maybe she fits in alright over here after all.

-

"Mom. Hey."

"Hi! Honey. Hi. I was so worried, my Lord."

"I know, I'm sorry. I'm ok. I-I came to see Joyce. She's a wreck, Mom, she- God. It hurts to watch."

"Well, if you were missing, I'd be the same way."

"..."

"Nancy?"

"Sorry, I'm here. What time does the middle school let out? I'm going to pick up Will."

"...3:10. And-"

"Yeah?"

"Be careful. I love you."

"...Of course. I love you too."

-

His car is gone.

-

Hopper pauses, turns in a circle. Hears Powell over the hill shouting. The road is empty. He squats down to look at the ruts in the gravel.

"Damn," he mutters. It’s numb. It always is, but he has the niggling suspicion that it shouldn’t be. He's beginning to wonder if maybe he shouldn't have compromised on caring from the start.

Because damn. He toes the skidded gravel. There's something going on.

He sets off into the woods.

-

Nancy expects the kid to be annoyed, honestly. She parks Steve's car carefully on the curb outside the middle school at 3:02, right behind Mindy Hagan's van, and rolls down the windows. There's dead leaves scattered over the school’s front lawn that crinkle as the wind flips them. They used to stomp on them as a kind of game, at lunch, she and Barb and whoever else was hanging out with them. People used to do that before everything went sour. People don't do that anymore.

Nancy knows that she's easy to know; Nancy is also critically aware that she's hard to like. It's a statement to Barb's patience that they've lasted this long. It's a statement to Nancy's talent with a makeup brush that Steve has stuck around.

At least, she thought. And she still thinks, mostly, but less certain; there was a different boy with her this morning, making eggs at the Byers's stove and holding her hand on the couch. He'd pulled Joyce into a gentle conversation about the flowerpots she had lined up on the counter, offered input and opinions, pointed out little things about the herbs, and when Joyce said, "It was Jonathan’s idea," Steve had just smiled, patted the woman's knee, and said, "Jonathan's always been smart, hasn't he?" more genuinely than Nancy would have expected.

Fuck. She might really like this boy.

Nancy blows out a long breath and stares into the rearview mirror at the hood ornament on the car behind her. The metal glints sharply in the sun.

Her thoughts take a dive into dangerous territory, so abruptly that she squeezes her eyes shut instinctively. Jonathan Byers- God, Jonathan, and his perpetually unbrushed bangs that always fell over his eyes, and his careful handwriting that made hers look messy, and his stupid fucking habit of rolling his bottom lip between his teeth. Jonathan and his dry sarcasm that was funnier than it had any right to be. Jonathan and his stupid denim jacket with the buttons worn dull from use. Jonathan fucking Byers. Her brother's friend's brother; he's too many puzzle pieces apart to be touching her, but not so far that she didn't sort of want him to. She doesn't know him, but she  _ should. _

Maybe she's delusional. Maybe she's just feeling neurotically obsessed with the missing kid out of some morbid curiosity. But maybe there's a reason she's noticed the freckles that come out when he turns red, maybe there's a reason she's seen him turn red often enough to notice them in the first place, and maybe the puzzle pieces aren't arranged quite right yet; maybe they'd slide together easily.

They'd been working on their project in class just last Monday. She'd been writing sort of absentmindedly, just trying to get thoughts down, and Jonathan had leaned over to look at it. "They are shadowy reflections of each other. It only takes a nudge to make one like the other." Nancy blinked at her paper as he read it off and then flushed. Fuck. "You're a  _ nerd,  _ Nancy Wheeler," he'd said half-jokingly. Nancy had intended to make an indignant remark back, but all she could think was how his strange, crooked smile was beautiful.

_ You're a nerd, Nancy Wheeler. _

She runs it through her mind one more time. Jonathan has a funny way of saying her name, with emphasis on the first syllable and a kind of curl to the pronunciation of Wheeler. Jonathan has a funny way of saying almost everything, she thinks. She'd like to hear more.

The bell rings sharply. Nancy blinks, shaking her head to discard the myriad of thoughts, and scans the crowd of students that spills out of the front doors. There are so  _ many _ of them, God. Is it even legal to have so many children in one place?

She sees him shuffle out at the back of the crowd, solidly secured between Mike and Lucas. "Will!" He doesn't hear her the first few times over the noise, and spends a good few seconds staring at her once he does before he approaches the car.

"Nancy?" She waves. "Uh-" he glances over his shoulder. "Are you here to get Mike? He's right over there."

"No, I'm here to get you." She leans over to unlock the passenger door. It takes a few tries, because her arm isn't  _ quite  _ long enough, but he doesn't laugh at her. He probably doesn't feel like laughing right now.

God. She's picking up Will from school.

The sudden reminder that Jonathan is  _ gone _ (not gone, her mind rushes to correct, not gone, just missing) hits her like a train. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath to calm her jackrabbiting heart.  _ You've got this.  _ "Come on, get in." Her voice trembles slightly. He doesn't mention it.

They're halfway up the road to the Byers's house when he asks. His voice is listless. "He's still gone, isn't he?"

Nancy stares at the oncoming road. "He'll be back soon."

"What if-" Will doesn't finish. Nancy presses her lips together tightly and puts on her turn signal. "Why are you at my house?" He asks instead. She gives him a wry little smile.

_ Jonathan,  _ she almost replies, but finds that his name sticks painfully in her throat. "Your mom needed some company," she says instead. Will looks like he wants to say something, but she pulls into their driveway before he does.

He slams the car door. The leaves in the yard crunch underfoot as he stalks toward the door.

Nancy leans her head back on the headrest of Steve’s car, willing up that smile again. "You're a  _ nuisance, _ Jonathan Byers," she murmurs. "I need a good grade on that project, you know."

-

Jonathan can't breathe, but he finds a lighter in a moss covered drawer, three levels underground in a building he doesn't recognise.

"Okay?" A voice asks shyly, and he offers his hand to help her out from under the desk.

"Yeah. I'm okay." He flicks the lighter with a grin. "It's gone."

A lighter is enough for now.

-

"Powell. Get over here."

"What is it, chief? You find somethin'?"

"I said get  _ over  _ here, for God's sake."

-

Steve has never met Jonathan's brother before. He had, in a way, been aware that the kid exists, but only for virtue of Hawkins being a damn small town. He's never actually laid his eyes on Will and processed him as, oh, Will Byers, Jonathan's brother. (He's not sure when he started calling Byers by his first name. That's really gotta stop. He and Jonathan, they're rough together. Two hideously clashing shades of the same goddamn colour. Steve has the height advantage. He doesn't know why it always feels like Jonathan is looking down at him.)

Will doesn’t spare him a glance as he comes in, just heads straight to where his mother is, curled up on the couch. She takes him into a hug as easily as breathing and buries her face into his hair.

Did she hug Jonathan like that? Steve frowns, recognizing the absurdity of the thought, but he can’t shake it from his mind. Jonathan is rock solid. These past four weeks of seeing him, he’s like an anchor to Steve’s roving eyes; when his gaze catches on Jonathan, it’s hard to tear away. It’s like he’s carved from stone. Does he crumble into Joyce’s hug like Will does? Does he drop that rigid set of his shoulders and melt into the touch? Does Jonathan like to be touched, anyway? Steve has never liked hugs.

Nancy’s arms wind around his elbow. “You good?”

Steve answers with a smile. Her grip tightens.

“I need to find him.”

Steve thinks about the bitter taste when Jonathan turned away from him. The kid’s too damn evasive.

_ I’m not gonna let you hide from me, _ he thinks again. It’s firm. It’s a promise.

He’s not gonna let Jonathan fucking Byers turn away from him again.

-

First, though, he’s gonna take Nancy for some fries. He can see the exhaustion underlining her every movement. Maybe she needs to find Byers, but she needs a break first, so Steve does what he’s best at: avoids reading the room and plays Rick Springfield way too loudly off his car speakers. He earns a laugh from Nancy when he catches her eye and winks during Jessie’s Girl, so he counts the escapade a success.

“Steve?”

Oh. Fuck.

He kicks his car door shut and spins around with a grin and a raised eyebrow. “Fancy seeing  _ you _ here! Shouldn’t you kids be in school?” The joke doesn’t soften the furrow of Tommy’s brow, but it does earn him an eye roll from Carol. Baby steps, right? He glances over to where Nancy is frozen by the passenger door. She looks vaguely horrified by his friends. She always looks vaguely horrified around Tommy, though, so he’s not too concerned. He does offer an apologetic look, though.

“Shouldn’t  _ you  _ be in school?” Carol replies. Her face has dipped into a scowl. “Where the hell were you today?”

“Skipped,” Steve says, because “visiting Jonathan’s mom” seems like it might raise questions he doesn’t exactly feel like answering.

Tommy’s eyes are fixed unerringly on the ground at Steve’s feet. They’re doing that thing where they’re a little too wide, disproportionately intense to the placid droop of his lips, an empty kind of depth reflecting back all over his face. “Tom?” he tries. Carol twists slightly to look up at him, frowning. Tommy just blinks hard and leans against her shoulder slightly. “Hey, you alright?” A thrill of concern runs down his spine at Tommy’s weak shrug.

“You look really pale,” Nancy chimes in. She’s still on the other side of the car.

Tommy shrugs again and mutters, “It’s winter.”

“Still fall,” Steve corrects, but drops it. “Come on, man. Let’s get some fries, ok?” He’d rather have his moment alone with Nancy, but he can’t help the paranoia in his gut as Tommy keeps avoiding his eyes. Fuck, but he can’t walk away. His throat feels tight.

Carol orders for all four of them. She gets Nancy extra fries but, “no ketchup, unless it’s a new bottle,” which is such an oddly specific clarification that the waitress pauses in her writing. Nancy’s forehead wrinkles. “Sorry, did you want ketchup?”

“Uh- no?”

“Good.” And that’s that. Steve tries to exchange a bewildered look with Tom, but it’s entirely one sided, so he exchanges it with Nancy instead. Carol looks incredibly pleased with herself for some reason. Girls are so confusing.

Tommy leans on Carol’s shoulder again and whispers, “You’re so fucking weird,” so at least he’s not alone. Tommy gets a kiss on the cheek for his trouble, though. Steve just gets another baffled look with Nancy.

“So, where were you?” Carol asks, leaning forward onto the table. Her smile is sickly sweet. Something screams  _ danger! _ in the back of Steve’s mind.

Nancy answers before he can. “We skipped.”

Carol’s smile thickens- slow, dangerous, like poisonous honey. “That’s funny,” she replies, all lecherous, the words dripping like viscous venom. Steve’s ears sting with the thorny undertone. “I expect that from Stevie, but  _ you _ , Princess? Who would think we’d see the day?” It’s not teasing, exactly, but it’s not an insult. There’s no cruelty in Carol’s eyes. There is, however, an unfamiliar gleam of interest.

Nancy meets the prying gaze easily. Her jaw is still set tightly; the intense determination that ignited her eyes at Jonathan’s house this morning is back, making Steve’s stomach swoop in a kind of sudden admiration. God, but he likes this girl so much. “Steve is a bad influence, what can I say?” she replies calmly, her tone belying that there is, in fact, a whole lot she’d like to say she’s refraining from for public decency. Steve is too busy grinning at the table to be offended.

“Sure is,” Carol agrees, leaning her chin in her hand. Tommy catches Steve’s eye for the first time and offers a little smile. “Careful next time, though. Your friend was worried.” Nancy’s solid expression falters for a moment, and Carol latches onto it immediately. “She even  _ deigned _ to talk to  _ me _ . As if I knew where you were.”

“You did say she was with Steve, so technically, you did know,” Tommy points out. The look Carol throws him is less than appreciative. Steve shivers.

Nancy looks sort of sick.

Tommy continues, fixing Nancy with a stare. “Everyone’s heard, you know. About yesterday.” Steve tenses. Tommy’s tone isn’t mocking, though. It’s intense in a different kind of way. “Everybody says you had a whole breakdown over Byers.” Nancy meets his stare entirely undeterred. “If you were so upset over him skipping, why’d you?”

“He didn’t skip.”

“How do you know?”

Nancy’s eyes blaze with a sudden rage that makes Steve cringe, but at that moment, the waitress comes back with their fries, Steve’s Pepsi, and two milkshakes. Carol hands them to Tommy and he, inexplicably, hands one to Nancy, whose demeanour shrinks again with confusion. “You’re okay with vanilla? Good.” He drums his fingers on the table. “Now. Where were you today, Princess?”

“Don’t call me that.”

Tommy’s eyes are dark. It’s the fluorescence of lights, maybe, or the lingering darkness from the overcast sky, but his gaze is like coal. So dark it’s unnerving. Steve takes a shaky breath and feels Carol’s feet nudge against his beneath the table. He gives her a little smile.

“Where  _ were _ you?”

Steve can’t take this anymore. “We went to J- the Byers’.” He stumbles over his words and curses himself internally. He’s never called the kid by his first name before. Now would be a hell of a time to start.

The table is silent. Tommy’s stare is on him now, heavier than he expected, like a genuine weight. Nancy shoots him a glare. Well, sorry. He couldn’t handle whatever dodging game she and Tommy were playing. It made his whole body tense.

This oppressive silence, though, isn’t much better. He swallows through his dry throat and says, “Why do you care so much, man? It’s one day, okay? We went to help his mom. It’s hard on her, show some class.”

Tommy’s stare shifts into something darker for a moment, but it’s gone as soon as it comes. He leans back in the booth and crosses his arms languidly. The silence persists a moment longer.

His eyes slide from Steve’s forcible (and admittedly pathetic) casualty to Nancy. His voice is softer than it was before. Softer than it should be, swinging into Steve with the blow that it does. “You’re right, Wheeler. He’s not skipping.”

“How do you know?” Nancy’s voice is trembling. She hides it well, but it shakes Steve’s heart nonetheless and he reaches over to grasp her hand under the table. She lets him. It doesn’t feel as sweet as it should.

Carol has sat up straighter too. Bewilderment brews in her eyes as they fix onto Tommy, searching for something. He’s gone off script, Steve realises, and that summons another quiver into his lungs. The diner is still flooded with light and the raucous afternoon crowd, but their booth feels isolated from it, enraptured in a desolate kind of dread.

Is this what Jonathan Byers does to him? Wraps him up in this twisted, lonely thoughts? Winds him between the lines of panicked and confused so thinly that he has to fight his lungs to breathe? Bends his mind into this severe new reality where everything is so dark, where Tommy’s eyes are too fiercely harsh to meet? Is this what he’s signing up for when he lets Nancy pull him into the kid’s orbit?

(Yes and no, really. It may be Jonathan’s gravity that’s tugged him two shades deeper in grey confusion, but that’s not actually what he does to Steve, not in full. The real power Jonathan has over him is much deeper; it’s this goddamned  _ parasite _ that he’s unintentionally become. He anchors Steve’s vision just from a glance in the hall, and his absence provokes this paradigm of obsession. He can’t go five minutes without Jonathan monopolising his thoughts. His breath shudders again.)

_ Is this what Jonathan Byers does to me?  _ he thinks, and then,  _ is this what Jonathan Byers does to Nancy? _

Her grip is suffocating on his hand. “How do you know, Tommy?” she repeats, sharper. There’s a half-desperation behind her words that chills Steve to the bone. (She’s caught up in the paradigm too, isn’t she? Isn’t that why she cried on his shoulder yesterday?)

Tommy smiles, or gives a mockery of one. There’s a bleak quality to it that Steve can’t quite understand. “They found his car.”

He understands it all at once.

“They what?” Carol asks shrilly. Tommy shushes her, his face reading a warning. “Tom- Tommy! What the hell do you mean, is there- I mean, was he  _ in _ it, or-”

The look on Tommy’s face is enough of an answer. Steve feels sick.

“Where was it?” Nancy’s voice is chillingly sharp. The steel of her face is quaking, but she upholds it admirably, keeping her eyes on Tommy steady and piercing.

“The woods. On that road at Cornwallis and Kerley. It was just…” he pauses. Swallows hard. “Just parked in the trees, way out of view. Hidden, like.”

Steve’s whole body feels like it’s shutting down, and in a sudden, hysterical flash, he realises he was wrong. It’s not the shades of grey or the panic or the irritating gravity. It’s not the easy way he hooks under Steve’s skin, not the parasitic anger he sets alight in Steve’s chest, not the goddamn paradigm. This, the outright bluntness of emotion, this is it. Steve isn’t good with his own feelings. He’s touch and go- he feels and acts and then moves on. He doesn’t know how to confront the deeper tangle under his impulses. This utter rawness that consumes him, that drags him into that tangle before he’s even begun to examine the surface and overwhelms him with so much  _ feeling, God _ \- this is it. This is what Jonathan Byers does to him.

The car’s not gone after all.

Steve is fucking terrified.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, writing my own story about jon vanishing: i miss jonathan
> 
> next chapter should be fun!! we'll have barb (finally), some more action, some more of nancy being absolutely over this shit, some more of the kids sticking their noses in. all good stuff!!
> 
> come hmu @theworriedman on tumblr!! i miss chatting with y'all


	3. dennis burgess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a Cherry Coke in the car. Hopper took it this afternoon, took everything, but it’d been sitting there in the cup holder, completely untouched. She wonders why he didn’t drink it. Who buys a coke and never opens the can?  
> \--  
> There's a ghost in Jonathan Byers's car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi and welcome to the tommy & nancy chapter i hope you enjoy
> 
> no seriously. this is the tommy & nancy chapter. i refuse to apologise

There’s a ghost in the car with him.

Hopper scratches at his beard, exhaustion pulling at him like a marionette. He’s been tired all day. He’s been tired since that damn call from Joyce, since he first heard the desperate, “find my son,” that fell down the line like a stone into his brain, but it seeps over him now, flooding every crevice of his veins.

“What do ya say, Chief?” Callaghan asks, his voice falsely cheerful. Hopper scowls. No point in a pretence right now. They’re all thinking the same thing.

Not many reasons to hide your car in the woods like this, are there? Parked up next to a tree.

The rut in the road, though-

Hopper envisions it for a moment- some sixteen-year-old kid, yanking his wheel, skidding off the gravel, barreling into the trees until he stopped. Until he parked his car here, up next to a tree. He imagines the music that must have been playing. Something angry, probably. Always something angry with these cases. Angry enough to turn you numb, because God knows they need the numbness more than anyone.

Numb eyes staring blankly at the road. Numb hands yanking the wheel. Numb face unflinching as the car shuts off.

Hopper can’t summon up the kid’s face in his mind. Knows him, but not well; he’s never gotten pulled over for going 40 in the downtown. Never gotten taken in for shooting his pop’s ol’ shotgun out back, off hunting ground and unlicensed. Never swiped a 6-pack from the gas station. Never sucker-punched some cocky senior in an alley. Hopper can only recall seeing hands reach over the cash register to squeeze his mom’s, all gentle. The kind of gentle Joyce deserves, that no one’s ever given her in full. Maybe the curve of a shadow, hugging his brother out front of the school. Maybe the swing of bangs over averted eyes and the tug of a jacket closed across his chest.

Jonathan was never interested in hurting anyone.

Hopper doesn’t want to wonder if Jonathan was interested in hurting himself.

Instead, he slams the door of the car and says, “Get a tow out here stat. And put a hike on it, okay?” He glances back into the window one last time. He’ll clear all that shit out later, when his lungs aren’t suffocating him from the inside out.

He wonders who that note in the cup holder is for. He wonders about the rut in the road.

There’s a ghost in Jonathan Byers’ car. Hopper can feel it in his passenger’s seat all the way back to town.

-

“Hey, you okay?”

_ No! _ Will almost snaps, because of course he’s not okay. Jonathan is  _ missing _ . Jonathan is  _ gone _ , and  _ Steve Harrington _ had been sitting at the kitchen table yesterday, and Mom said Jonathan was probably okay and “he’ll be back soon, baby,” but her eyes got a little darker every time she said it, and Will knew she was lying. She doesn’t think he’s okay. She doesn’t think he’s coming back.

But Dustin doesn’t know that. So.

“Yeah, fine.” He shoves past his friend into class and throws his stuff down on his desk. Lucas startles at the noise, looking up at him.

The frown of concern again. Great.

“Hey, you o-”

“I’m  _ fine,” _ Will snaps before he can finish. “Stop asking me that. I’m just… tired. I have a headache.” It’s the worst excuse in the world. It makes Lucas and Dustin shut up, though, so he slumps down in his seat and buries his head in his arms.

Steve had dropped him off this morning. Nancy was there in the front seat, curled up with her arms wrapped around her knees, and he hated the flood of  _ relief  _ that came over him when he saw her.

Because sure, Nancy had picked him up from school. And Nancy had brought him fries and sat on the porch with him as he ate them. And Nancy had given him a hug when she left and whispered, “He’s so proud of you, you know,” into his hair and squeezed him tight enough to push all the bitter, fear tainted air out of his lungs for a moment. And okay, when she made Steve wait to pull away from the curb until he waved from the school door, maybe he’d felt a little weird, but the moment she’d waved back, something in his chest had eased and he’d felt  _ safe. _

But it’s not Nancy’s job to make him feel safe. It’s supposed to be Jonathan waving back at him. Will doesn’t want to replace Jonathan. He just wants him back.

“Hey, ar-”

“He’s okay,” Lucas interrupts, and then adds, softer, “Calm down, Mike.” Will tilts his head up a little. Mike’s eyebrows are furrowed together, but Will pulls out a smile for him, and they relax a bit. Mike is always so dramatic.

It doesn’t really feel dramatic right now, though, if Will thinks about it. Everything is just… really empty.

He woke up late this morning because Jonathan didn’t wake him up, and part of him is convinced he’s still asleep, and when he wakes up it will be to a knock on the doorframe and a half-amused, “come on bud, you’re gonna be late.” And everything will be okay. Once he wakes up, everything will be okay.

Ms Callaghan is wiping the chalkboard down for their lesson. Her husband found Jonathan’s car yesterday.

Jonathan’s car. But not Jonathan. Because Jonathan’s missing. Because Jonathan’s  _ gone _ . Because Mom thinks he’s never coming back. Because Jonathan fucking lied, and now Will has to live with it.

Will lets his head fall into his arms again and grits his teeth tightly. God, he hates this so much.

“Will-” Mike doesn’t know how to leave it well enough alone, does he? He never has. And normally, it’s one of the reasons Will loves his stupid nosy best friend so much, but right now, he just wants to pretend he’s dreaming. He can feel the combined glare Lucas and Dustin toss over his head, and Mike sighs.

The bell rings. Will doesn’t pick his head up. Ms Callaghan doesn’t make him. And nobody knows why because nobody knows any of it.

The dream’s not over yet, though. Jonathan’s gonna come back.

He just has to keep his eyes closed.

-

He’s not worried. He’s just kind of curious. Physics is way too boring to hold his attention, and Princess’s friend, the one with a haircut seventy years older than her and the dorkiest glasses Tommy’s ever seen, has been glancing at the empty seat next to her periodically with such intense concern that he can feel it from across the classroom. Tommy can’t remember any two days when Little Miss Perfect’s missed class, not all year.

He thinks, unbidden, of Byers, of their English class together last year. He never missed class either. Not that Tommy had kept tabs on that, exactly, but the kid sat right behind him, and he always hummed the same song under his breath when he got bored with the lesson, and Tommy still got it stuck in his head once a damn week, so Johnny Boy had stuck in his head too, just a bit. He’s like that. Slips under the radar, then breaks through the wavelength without even meaning to. Makes his own fucking wavelength. Makes Tommy hum Things Are Getting Better when he’s doing his homework.

It was worse last year. It’s not as bad now. Something about the summer in, how the kid’s hair grew, how his shoulders filled out, it makes Tommy hum that damn song a bit less. It’s ‘cause he looks less like Stevie, probably. Doesn’t think about the kid as much, now that he doesn’t look like Stevie. ‘Cause Stevie’s his best friend.

Well. Stevie’s his only friend. But that’s the same thing, basically.

Barbara glances at the seat next to her again, and Tommy rolls his eyes. Girls are so dramatic _.  _ And he is  _ not, _ no matter what Carol says. He's never been dramatic, not even once ever. He's very reasonable.

It was  _ not _ overreacting to skip school and look for Steve, yesterday, thank you very much. Steve  _ always  _ told Tommy when he was skipping. It was fair to be worried.

Then again, Nancy was always in class. So Tommy's not worried, exactly, but it's more interesting than Physics, so when Ms Hudson turns her back again, he slips out the door.

He sticks his hands in his pockets as he strolls down the hallway, wracking his brain for where Nancy Wheeler might be hiding. The bathroom, maybe? Except Carol told him once that it's impossible to hide there, because there's always someone else in there crying. Which is stupid. Personally, Tommy always cries behind the bleachers on the second baseball pitch. Nobody ever ventures down there, unlike the public fucking bathroom. Nancy's a nerd, though. Real goody-two shoes. She probably doesn't know the right doors to sneak out of without getting caught.

A  _ nerd.  _ Oh, he's a genius.

“Well, well, if it isn’t teenage rebellion herself,” Tommy greets semi-sarcastically, approaching the back corner of the library with his best attempt at a swagger.

Nancy doesn’t spare him a glance. “Fuck off, Tommy.” He does not. She yelps as he slides onto the table, disrupting the notes spread across it. “Can you not sit in a chair? Like a normal person?”

Tommy picks up one of the many color-coded sheets. “Jesus, is this your religion or something?” he asks incredulously. It’s absolutely meticulous. He’d known she was a priss, but holy  _ shit. _

“Fuck off, Tommy.” Nancy’s brow is furrowed tightly. He hadn’t known a human face could get so pinched.

He sets his feet on a chair and leans his elbows onto his knees, still reading over the notes he’d picked up. “You already said that. Is this honors English? I need serious help with that class.”

She snatches them back and primly settles them in a stack with the others. “Try not being so stupid, then,” is her half-distracted response. Tommy scoffs.

“You’re a piece of work, Princess.”

“Don’t call me-”

“Barbara is worried about you again,” he interrupts. Nancy keeps sorting her papers, but he catches the hitch in her movements, the guilty contortion of her face, and he smiles tightly. Nancy Wheeler’s a bit of a jigsaw, but Tommy’s good at reading those. The tightness in her lips, the tremble in her hands, the twitch of her nose- she feels bad, so bad she’s sick with it, because she’s blown off her only real friend. She can taste the bile in her throat. She knows she’s been struck on the rawest nerve, and it stings. Tommy’s smile widens. It’s exploitative of him, but he presses a little more. “She’s all worked up about it. Wasn’t even taking… alphabetized notes, or whatever you nerds do. Color coded? What’re the codes?”

“Pink is information for a test, orange is SAT words, yellow is-” she cuts herself off, flushing slightly, and then says, “Fuck off, Tommy,” again. Her voice is resigned.

Suddenly distracted, Tommy reaches over for her notes again with a frown. “Shit, you think Macbeth is gonna be on the test?” he asks.

Nancy stares at him, looking somewhere between annoyed and concerned. “That’s all we’ve read this semester,” she points out slowly, like she isn’t sure if he knows. And ok, yeah, that makes sense. He’s not about to admit that, though.

“Still. Shit.” He frowns. “Underlying moral meaning? The hell does that mean?”

“The lesson that the play is trying to teach, you fucking moron,” Nancy answers. She’s clearly exasperated, but her face has relaxed a little, so Tommy doesn’t worry about it. As long as she isn’t yelling.

Not that he really cares if she yells at him. It’s just that he was hoping to have a party soon, and Steve looks at Nancy like- well. Steve looks at Nancy like a lot of things. But he looks at her like he doesn’t want to go to parties without her. So Tommy doesn’t wanna piss her off too bad.

Piss off the priss. Ha.

“There’s a lesson?”

“I mean, there’s a lot, but-”

“I thought it was just, like… someone said, ‘hey, wouldn’t this be fucked up?’ and then wrote it down.”

Nancy looks struck dumb. They stare at each other for at least a minute as she periodically blinks in shock. When she finally speaks, she sounds impressed. “Wow, Tommy,” she breathes. His face wrinkles in confusion. “I’m in awe. I had no idea it was possible to pay  _ that _ little attention.” Tommy’s face morphs into a scowl. Nancy just gives him a false, sickly sweet smile and returns to her notes.

“You should try it,” is the only, incredibly lame, response that he manages to come up with. Nancy rolls her eyes as she adds a pink line to something. It’s like the fifth page or something insane like that.

“No thanks. I have notes to alphabetize.”

“That’s literally the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I’m quoting you?”

“I’m disgusting!”

Nancy claps a hand over her mouth as quickly as possible, but it doesn’t completely muffle the laugh she lets out. Tommy blinks. Slowly, his disgusted face morphs into a grin. She huffs, pulling the paper closer to herself and leaning onto her elbow so that her hair swings down between them. Tommy lays down so that he can keep grinning at her.

Nancy spares him another glare, though she has a wry smile twisting at her lips, and keeps writing. Tommy stays silent. Her handwriting has slowed- she’s thinking. She’s going to say something. It comes soon enough. “Why are you here, Tommy?”

He doesn't answer right away. It's not because he doesn't know. He doesn't, but that's not why he pauses. It's just that she says his name the same way Steve does, with the click of her tongue at the beginning, and it's so jarring to see his best friend reflected in this tiny, angry girl that his throat seizes up. Steve is… he's the weirdest guy Tommy's ever met, but he's  _ Tommy's  _ weird guy. They've been connected at the hip since they were four years old and Steve yelled at Blake Fores for teasing Tommy on the playground. Planted right between them with his fists firmly on his hips and screamed at the top of his tiny lungs until Blake crept away. Tommy'd said, "You're loud," and he was right, and now, thirteen years later, they're knit together inseparably. But here's Nancy Wheeler, with her color coded notes and her Macbeth morals, clicking her tongue the same way as Steve.

"I don't like you." It's not what he meant to say. She doesn't balk or anything like he expects, but her wide, unwavering stare is worse for his nerves than any scowl. "I mean." He rolls his head back to stare at the ceiling. "But Steve does. He, uh… he cares about you. And I care about him. So I guess I can't hate you."

Nancy laughs, which he hadn't expected. It's not mocking, either, not as far as he can tell. "Well, I don't hate you either," she replies. Her voice is amused. "You're loud. And you're very annoying. And you've never thought through any idea in your life, I don't believe. But-" she regards him with that sharp gaze again. He shivers. "Steve must like you for some reason."

Tommy tries not to roll his eyes. There's a fragile kind of truce here, and he doesn't want to tread on it so early. But. Well. It's just. "He doesn't like me that much," he says, and Nancy arches a brow at him. "We're, like, bros. Or whatever. Like, we hang out 'cause we're on basketball together, so we see each other all the time, and it's, like. It's habit. We hang out 'cause shit's boring."

"He's been your best friend for, what, like ten years?" Nancy asks, sounding dangerously skeptical. Tommy flushes.

"Thirteen. But that's not… I'm not…" he frowns, searching for the words.

Nancy sighs, setting her notes aside. "Tommy." The click makes him wince this time. "He talks about you all the time."

"Yeah. I mean, we hang out all the time, so he has a lot of stories about me," he defends. Stevie tells every story he can, after all. He's always lived for the drama of it.

Nancy's voice is oddly patient in a way he hasn't heard before. "Stories he  _ chooses  _ to tell. Come on, Tom. Buck up. Don't be the insecure jock stereotype."

"I'm not insecure."

"You just told me your best friend of  _ thirteen years  _ doesn't like you that much."

"Yeah! But I'm very secure in that knowledge!"

Nancy doesn't look impressed. He didn't expect her to. "Well, why don't you ask him, then?" She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, looking dead serious.

She's not, though, right? "Ask him if he likes me?" Tommy repeats. She nods. "No? That would be so awkward, are you insane?"

"You stalked me to the library, laid on my table, said you didn't like me, and then shared your insecurities, all in five minutes. Haven't you realised by now the awkward is  _ you?" _ And okay, she kind of has a point there.

Tommy looks back at the ceiling. When Nancy speaks again, her voice is softer. Fragile in the kind of way that can't be broken. "I get it." He braves a glance over and sees her staring solemnly at the table. Her eyes flick up to meet his briefly. Blue, bright, blinding- it's one of the longest moments of his life. "I don't make friends easily either," she continues, and he has to wonder how she’s managed to hear what he was saying, even when he barely knew. "I've got my best friend, and that's so much more than I deserve most days. I'm not good at friendship. People don't connect with me right." Her voice is trembling slightly. Tommy feels the strangest urge to squeeze her shoulder in comfort, but he doesn't know her well enough for that.

"Maybe it's just not the right people yet," he suggests instead. "Maybe there are people you fit perfectly with, and you just can't jam anyone else in there." He taps his fingers on the table and watches her laugh silently, still staring at the table. He surprises himself with the smile that catches at the corner of his mouth. "Stevie is my best friend," he says before he means to. "Like Barbara is yours. And I don't know if I need anyone else. I just know that it fucking sucks when your best friend likes a million girls more than you." There's a silence between them. Nancy looks… stricken, almost. Confused. Like he'd given her an answer, but no equation to explain it.

He is overcome with the piercing need to tell her about yesterday. "Hey, Princess-"

The bell rings for lunch, startling him so badly that he shoots upward and tilts the whole table, pitching straight off onto the ground. "Shit!"

"Tommy!" Nancy kneels by his side, looking one part concerned and two parts judgemental. "Are you okay? Did you hit your head?"

Tommy blinks. He can't see super clearly. "Uh. Yeah." He blinks again. "Yeah, ok. Took a second. I'm all good."

Nancy gives him that long-suffering, raised eyebrow of appraisal that she's so good at. "Saying it took a second does  _ nothing  _ to boost my confidence. Come on, jumpy. Let's go get lunch. Steve and Carol will be annoyed if they have to wait too long."

Tommy nods vaguely, but makes no move to get up. "Is Barbara sitting with us?" he asks. It's a fair question, he thinks, but Nancy stares at him like he's speaking a different language. "What? She's your best friend, right?"

"Uh. Yeah." Her expression doesn't get any less confused, but she does hold out her hand, hauling him up to his feet. "You're absolutely hopeless, Tommy Hagan."

He laughs before he can help it. "You're a piece of work, Nancy Wheeler," he replies. She rolls her eyes for the thousandth time. Tommy laughs louder.

He keeps his grin up all the way to the cafeteria and ignores the weight in his pocket.

It's probably nothing, anyway.

-

It's dark and it's scary and it's awful and it's  _ cold _ . She's shivering from head to toe, feeling like her skin is frozen to her bones, too petrified to do anything but peer around, keeping an eye out for the Monster.

Jonathan laces their fingers together and says, "You're gonna make it out of here," with a confidence stronger than any anxiety she can manage. "I'm gonna get you out of here, kid. I promise."

But it's dark and it's cold and it's awful here, and she is so very tired. She doesn't know if she wants to make it out anymore.

Jonathan is her friend, though, and he wants her to keep going. So she keeps going. Keeps breathing. Keeps quiet.

He laces their fingers together and says, "Run."

-

Karen is at the kitchen table. Holly is on her knee, looking content. Karen looks anything but. "And you're sure it wasn't a crash?" It's a stupid question, but Joyce just rubs at her eyes with her hands, overcome with exhaustion. She and Will had stayed up all night, curled together on the couch, staring out the window at Jonathan's car sitting stationary in the driveway. They hadn't spoken. There was nothing to say.

"There's not any damage. And it wasn't touching any trees."

Karen frowns, bouncing Holly slightly. "Well." And that's all she says for a minute. Holly stares at Joyce with big bright eyes and waves. She waves back.

Jonathan was never really like that. Even when he was little, real little, he never waved for the hell of it. He waved at her, but he only ever waved at her. Jonathan never had that unconditional innocence in his eyes that's so blatant in Holly's. He was born silent in a screaming world, and the first time he cried was when he met his dad. (Lonnie, ever the enthusiast, had said, "Cool," and held his firstborn son for seven whole seconds before giving him back. And honestly, that was the most affectionate he ever got.) Jonathan has always been steadfast in her life. Her son first and foremost, but her rock. Her stability. It's so hard to be calm without him.

Had she leaned on him too much? Had it pushed him away?

"Do you remember Dennis?" she asks. Karen kisses her daughter's curls, looking puzzled. "Dennis Burgess. We went to highschool with him. He moved to Chicago our sophomore year. Do you remember what happened in Chicago?" Her mouth tastes bitter with her own implication.

Karen's eyes lit up with recognition, and then puzzlement, and then sadness, and then a piercing fear, so poignant that Joyce's spikes in return. "Do you think…"

Joyce shrugs hopelessly. "I think he wasn't happy," she replies, barely a whisper, barely able to admit it. Her eyes are raw, but she bites back tears. She's already cried so much. "And I mean…" her fingers are wrapped around her mug so tightly that they're turning white. "He lied about Will. Something… something big happened. Because he lied about Will. And Will is…"

"Will's his whole world," Karen says quietly. "I know."

The silence sits heavy between them. Joyce stares into her tea, though it's gone cold. Dennis Burgess was a nice boy. Before Chicago. Before he brought his father’s gun into a backroom and-

She sets down her mug. There was a Cherry Coke in the car. Hopper took it this afternoon, took everything, but it’d been sitting there in the cup holder, completely untouched. She wonders why he didn’t drink it. She wonders where he put the cigarettes.

Who buys a coke and never opens the can?

She feels sick with herself for the thought and kneels down in front of Karen’s knee, striking up a half-babbling conversation with Holly. Karen grasps one of her shoulders lightly, and Holly copies her on the other, and Joyce tosses the unopened can out of her mind.

It’s probably nothing, anyway.

-

Nancy stops at her locker to get her lunch. She expects Tommy to continue past her to the cafeteria, but instead he leans against the lockers, hands in his pockets, and, true to standard as the newly discovered Most Awkward Person Alive, strikes up a conversation in the weirdest way she’s ever heard. “So, hot chocolate and tea. What if I mixed them together?”

“No, what the hell?” She spares him a disgusted stare and then intentionally tugs the locker door to be between their faces. “What’s wrong with you?”

Tommy’s laugh has always pissed her off. It’s irritating by design, flat and loud and unmistakable, knocking everyone else’s aside just to be the dischorance that catches your ear. It’s the second worst sound in the world, right after her own voice when she has to tell Steve he’s right about something. Right now, though, it’s not as mocking, not as fake, and Nancy finds herself smiling along a little bit. “Like, ginger tea. Ginger and chocolate go well together.”

“Yeah, but the water content. It’ll overpower both flavors.”

“Well, sorry. Didn’t know I was talking to Miss American Chef.”

She closes her locker and sticks her nose in the air. “And don’t you forget it,” she says primly. She can’t cook water, but Tommy doesn’t need to know that. Tommy doesn’t know anything about her. She can be a kitchen expertise to him if she damn well wants to be. It’s a sudden rush of a feeling, talking to someone she’s never talked to before, holding the power to be whoever she wants. Barb has always known every version of her, from the first to the current, and seen every layer, and seen every change, and remembers it all. Nancy remembers all of Barb, too. It’s a special kind of adoration that lasts through so many volumes and versions. She wouldn’t give it up for anything. But it’s suffocating, sometimes, because she can never be anyone but herself. And sometimes, Nancy would kill to be someone else for a day; just a day as whoever she wants. It’s so hard to figure out who she’s supposed to be when she’s always constrained by who she’s seen as.

Tommy doesn’t know anything about her. She shoves him with her shoulder and says, “I’m gonna tell Steve and Carol about your stupid idea.”

She doesn’t know anything about him, but he scoffs and says, “They already know I’m stupid, Princess,” with no trace of the malice she always sees on him, and she thinks maybe she could.

She glances at Jonathan’s locker as they pass it. She’d seen him at it a dozen times, half-hiding, trying to stay out of the way. For a moment, she pretends she’d seen him this morning on the way to History. He has this way of glancing back every few seconds over his shoulder, the paranoid bastard. Maybe she crossed his path at just the right time. Maybe their gazes caught for just a moment. Maybe he gave her a little smile.

Tommy glances at Jonathan’s locker too, and she swears his eyes get darker, but it’s probably nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i answer any of your questions? no, probably not, but you can have some more in compensation!!
> 
> jokes aside, thank you guys so much for reading this. it means a lot. i hope you enjoyed! drop a comment to let me know. (:


	4. no matter what

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s just her and Jonathan and a monster that screams too loud.
> 
> No matter what, they’re gonna bring Jonathan back.  
> -  
> or; This is the moment Hopper loses his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i didn't expect me to update this quickly either, actually!! you're looking at two days of blown off schoolwork, so. maybe we shouldn't encourage me
> 
> eh, what about it!! i'm actually pretty proud of this chapter, so i hope you guys enjoy it!
> 
> ALSO, tw for mentions of suicide!!! i know i put it in the tags and it's been vagued at before, but i feel like i should put a warning for it being explicitly stated, too. so. stay safe

Hopper's gonna lose his damn mind.

-

Okay, well, they all lose their minds. But it starts like this:

Will is on his way home from school in Steve Harrington’s car, and Nancy is in the front seat with a book open on her lap. She’s reading it out loud as some kind of review, and just as she says, “out, damned spot!” the radio switches, and Will goes utterly still.

_ Darling, you’ve got to let me know- _

“He likes this song,” he says. Nancy goes quiet, twisting around to look at him. There’s a look on her face that Will can’t understand. It’s hurt, sort of, but curious, open, with something soft in her big eyes. Nancy’s never been the type to show all her feelings outright, but this- whatever this is, it’s all over her face. She always looks like that when Will mentions Jonathan. It would be funny if it didn’t hurt so bad. “He gave me a tape one time. When I was like nine or something. He, uh. Mom and Dad were arguing about me. Dad was gonna take me to a baseball game, and he didn’t show, and Jon-” he stumbles over the name and has to blink hard, his eyes burning. “Jonathan just turned this up and said, uh. I didn’t have to like things because other people wanted me to. I should just like things because I like them.”

_ You’re happy when I’m on my knees- _

“He loves you,” Nancy says. She says it softly, but it feels like a stone in Will’s stomach. Sure, Jonathan loves him, but he doesn’t love him enough to stay.

‘Cause Jonathan parked his car in the middle of the woods and left it there. And Will’s not an idiot. He knows why his mom’s eyes got dark when Hopper told them. He knows why she made an aborted movement to grab the piece of paper that was folded up in the cup holder. He knows why Nancy hugged him so tight before school this morning. He knows what everyone thinks.

Will wishes that he could be certain they were wrong. Will wishes, more than anything, that he  _ didn’t _ know what everyone thinks, because it’s the worst, most awful, most sickening thought in the whole world, but he does know. Because he thought it too. Because when his mom’s eyes got dark, so did his.

Nobody’s saying it, though, and Will’s sick of it. “Yeah. I know.” Nancy’s eyes are too honest to meet straight on. “Not enough, though.”

Steve doesn’t say much on these trips. He always focuses on the road, staring straight ahead, never missing a beat, never swinging on a turn. Will doesn’t know if he’s always driven like that. Will didn’t even know he existed until a few days ago. He wishes he didn’t. Not because he doesn’t like Steve, he seems cool enough, but Steve is only here because Jonathan isn’t, and that’s not fair. None of this is fair.

Now, though, Steve reaches over and bumps the radio down so that he can speak easier. “That’s bullshit, bud.”

“Steve,” Nancy says warningly. Steve waves her off.

“It’s  _ Jonathan _ we’re talking about,” he says, like that means something. (It does. It means everything.) “I mean, Nance, she flipped out when he didn’t call, but one of the first things she said, she said, ‘he didn’t pick up Will.’ Said he never, ever forgets you.” Will’s eyes sting. He pulls his knees up to his chest protectively, though he’s not sure what he’s protecting himself from. “I mean, hell, I’ve spoken to him twice? And even I know how much you matter to him. Everyone knows.” He glances in the rearview mirror to give Will a tiny smile. “Whatever happened, it’s not about you.”

“Stop saying that,” Will bursts out. “Stop… stop being vague. Just say it.” His voice cracks, but he can’t stand this dancing around. “Everyone thinks he killed himself. You don’t have to pretend.”

Steve is silent. Nancy is staring down at her book like she can set it on fire with her eyes.

Will takes in a shaky breath. “I wanna find him,” he says, and his voice is a little stronger. “I don’t want him to be gone. But I don’t want everyone to say he’s coming back when they think he won’t.”

“He will,” Nancy says firmly, immediately. Steve and Will both jerk their gaze to her. Her jaw is set tightly; there’s a sheen in her eyes, but she doesn’t look the weaker for it. The tears aren’t cracks in her confidence. They’re part of it, part of that feeling she can’t get off her face when she talks about Jonathan. “He  _ will. _ No matter what. No matter what I have to do.” It’s almost unsettling, how calm her voice is. “I know he’s out there. I’m going to find him.” She reaches her hand back to rest on Will’s knee and squeezes it. Jonathan used to do that a lot. His knee, or his shoulder, or ruffling his hair. A brief touch. Just an affirmation. It feels the same when Nancy does it, and Will nods back at her, feeling his back straighten. “No matter what,” she repeats.

Steve reaches over to take her other hand in his. “No matter what.” His voice is just as firm.

No matter what, they’re gonna bring Jonathan back. And in the car right now, with Nancy’s hand on his knee and Steve’s eyes meeting his in the rearview mirror, that feels like a promise. Will nods. “No matter what,” he echoes. “He’s coming back.”

Steve takes the long way around so that they don’t have to go down Mirkwood. It’s sweet. Will wishes he were glad to know him.

-

It’s deathly quiet. She squeezes her eyes closed tight. She shouldn’t. Eyes open, eyes open, you’ll get caught if your eyes don’t stay open, but Jonathan’s got her pulled against him, holding on tight. It’s not like when Papa held her, when he made his arms into another cage, pulling her in and locking her up. It’s strong, but it’s gentle. He’s not holding on so that she won’t leave. He’s holding on so that she doesn’t have to.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. She can feel him shaking, tears catching on her head, but his voice is certain. It’s okay. “You’re going to be okay.”

She nods into his shoulder. “Okay,” she agrees. “We are okay.”

Jonathan laughs quietly, holding onto her, but he’s not laughing at her. It took a while to figure out that he laughs when he’s happy. He’s still crying, but he’s happy, so she smiles. “You’re learning really quick. You’re really smart, Ellie.”

Ellie. She likes the name. He’d wrinkled his eyebrows together when she said “Eleven,” and told her that people shouldn’t be named after numbers. He asked if she liked being named after a number. When she shrugged, that little wrinkle between his brows had gotten deeper, and he’d said, “How about this, Eleven. How about I call you something else? A different name? We can pick one you like. It doesn’t have to be that different. Like, uh… Ellie.”

“Ellie.” She’d nodded, something bright blossoming in her chest, so intense that she glanced down, sure she was melting open. She’d pointed to herself. “Ellie.” and Jonathan taught her how to smile.

She doesn’t know how long it’s been since then, but he’s protected her the whole time. Even once she’d thrown a monster ten feet and brought a whole tree crumbling down, he still took a stance between her and the danger, every time. He’d gotten scratched by the claws yesterday, a scrape across his stomach that sent him sprawling, and he’s her  _ friend _ , and she’s never been more terrified in her life, not even when Papa put her in the bathtub.

But she brought it to its knees, and Jonathan stumbled up to his feet, lighter in hand, still shielding her. She knew he was scared too, but he lit a stick on fire and then marched right up and wedged it in the monster’s chest.

It’s weird, because when the monster screams, Jonathan cries. Ellie doesn’t know how to cry over the monster. She only knows how to smile that she and Jonathan are still okay. Jonathan says she looks like Will when she smiles. Ellie doesn’t know what “brother” means, but he says it’s sort of like a friend, but better. He says Will is the best person he knows. He says Will would probably think she’s cool, that Will would probably want to be her friend, and from the way Jonathan talks about him, Ellie feels… proud. Proud. He’d taught her that word yesterday. She wants to be friends with Will.

But Will isn’t here. It’s just her and Jonathan and a monster that screams too loud.

Jonathan holds her closer and says, “I’m gonna get you out of here. I promise, Ellie. I’ll get you out. No matter what.”

She remembers the way his stomach bled yesterday and feels hers twist. “No.” She shakes her head. “No. You too.” Jonathan doesn’t say anything to that. Ellie frowns, twisting so that she can see him easier. He’s still crying. She pushes his chest, scowling. “You too,” she insists. “Promise.”

“I can’t promise,” he says, and she can feel her lip tremble. “I’m sorry. I can’t promise. If I have to die to get you out of here, I will.” Ellie hates being lied to, but sometimes she wishes Jonathan would lie to her. Something about his honesty hurts her. In her chest, it hurts. “You’re gonna love it out there. You’re gonna find all kinds of friends, and you’re gonna find a family, and you’re never, ever gonna have to see the bad men again. You’re gonna be safe.”

“Can I be friends with Will?”

Jonathan’s smile is shaky. He squeezes her hands. “Sure, kid. You can be friends with Will.” She smiles back.

“You too,” she says, and then pokes him in the chest firmly. “Family.”

“Family,” Jonathan repeats quietly. His smile shakes a little less. “Yeah. We’re family.” He squeezes her hand again. “No matter what.”

His voice stays quiet. They have to stay quiet. The monster will hear them if they don’t stay quiet. Quiet, quiet, quiet, and keep your eyes open, because the monster is coming.

The monster is coming no matter what.

-

According to Nancy, Tommy’s awkward as hell, which Barb believes very easily. She also believes very easily that Tommy is self absorbed, emotionally immature, and all around a dick, but she doesn’t voice that. Nancy gets cross easily when she’s upset. And the past few days, Nancy's been as upset as Barb's ever seen her. Nancy's also been spending more time with Steve, which is suspicious. Nancy doesn’t trust boys. Nancy doesn’t trust anyone, but boys least of all.

Nancy aside, Barb fully believes Tommy Hagan is awkward as hell. What she didn’t believe until now is that Tommy Hagan, awkwardness extraordinaire, is beaten out on that point by his own girlfriend.

“Have you ever kissed a guy?” is how Carol chooses to start their conversation. Barb doesn’t reply. Not because she’s ignoring her- she is, but she also doesn’t realise at first that Carol is addressing her. She’s never done it before. And Carol doesn’t say her name or anything. She just stands there, waiting for an answer, even though it’s not at all forthcoming.

Barb notices her stare after half a minute. “Are you asking me?”

“Obviously.” It wasn’t obvious, actually, because she’d made no effort to make it such. Barb rolls her eyes and goes back to Great Expectations. “Oh, come on. Have you?” Carol leans her elbows on the back of the bench, tilting her head to examine Barb’s profile. She’s got a curious little smile on.

Barb eyes the swing of curls in the brisk wind and decides to entertain her. “No.” Carol huffs, clearly disappointed. Before she can snap something, the reply comes, equally as light and casual as before.

“Have you ever kissed a girl?”

Barb slams her book shut, annoyance sizzling up in her gut. “I know you get off on being a pain, but if you came here to-”

“No, no, no,” Carol cuts her off, shaking her head. Her curls go flying everywhere with it. A few strands are caught in her lipstick as she fixes her gaze onto Barb’s face again. Her eye contact is unerring and terribly harsh on Barb’s nerves. A spider of a shiver crawls down her spine. “I wasn’t making fun of you. I was just wondering.” And to her credit, she sounds truthful enough.

“Well,” Barb replies, cursing her life, “I haven’t. I haven’t kissed either. Why do you care?”

Carol pauses, looking like she’s about to ask another stupid question, and then looking like she’s reconsidering her stupid question, and then making full, unsettling eye contact again as she asks it anyway. “Have you ever kissed anyone else?”

“Wh-” Barb does a double take, reeling back the entire conversation in her head. “There isn’t anyone else? Who else?”

Carol looks taken aback. “What?” She frowns. “Wait. That doesn’t make sense.”

“How does that not make sense? Did you not take sex ed?”

“You learned anything in sex ed?” Carol shoots back, which is actually a fairly good point. "And it  _ doesn't  _ make sense. There are, like, five billion people in the world. How can there only be two categories?" She looks genuinely distressed by it. Barb's not really sure how to respond.

"Well, that's just… how it is," is what she comes up with. Carol huffs again with obvious dissatisfaction. She swings a leg up over the back of the bench, straddling it. Her curls are falling over one shoulder now, spilling across her sweater, vivid against the pale blue. The wind has spread a pink flush across her cheeks. There's a moment, when she's tilting her head to the side, eyes wide and lips twisting up, that Barb sort of understands why people call her pretty.

Unfortunately, she opens her mouth again, and the moment passes. "So, you've not kissed  _ anyone?"  _ Barb doesn't bother answering this time. It's getting annoying. Well, it's been annoying the whole time, but it's getting too annoying to humor. Carol sighs pointedly. "I'm trying to talk to you."

Barb opens her book again. "You're just asking weird questions."

"They're conversation starters!” Carol insists. “Because  _ I've  _ kissed people. In fact, I kissed someone today! I kissed Tommy. And see, Tommy, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. So it all connects!" Barb looks up at her, squinting. Carol's eyes are wide and earnest, glinting in the dimness of late afternoon. That genuinely makes sense to her. Wow.

Sighing, Barb shifts, facing her more fully. "Why do you want to talk to me about Tommy?"

Carol's face lights up. She readjusts her whole body, straightening up and flipping her hair over her shoulders, and then clears her throat authoritatively. "He and Nancy came to lunch together today.”

There’s a pause before Barb realises she’s finished talking. “And this concerns me… why?” she asks, trying not to sound too exhausted. Tommy is friends with Steve. It makes sense. It’s annoying, but it makes sense.

“Well, why?” Carol pulls her other leg up over the bench, settling down next to her with much more drama than needed. “They’ve never talked before. Tommy doesn’t like her.” Barb is personally offended at that, because everyone should like Nancy, even if she’s kind of blunt and condescending sometimes. She’s smart enough to have earned the right to some know it all moments. She’s kind, and she’s funny, and she’s intuitive, and she always hugs Barb’s mom when she sees her, even if it’s in the middle of the grocery store. Or in the middle of crossing the street, that one time. (Nobody had been coming, but still. Poor decisions were made.) Barb’s offence must show on her face, because then Carol takes offence of her own to the idea that Barb is offended with her and crosses her arms with a pinched frown. “It’s just because of Steve,” she says, like that explains everything. It does, kind of.

“I don’t know. I think he went to see her in third period.”

Carol blinks. “She wasn’t in Physics?”

“How do you know she has Physics third period?” Barb asks suspiciously, eyeing Carol with a touch more caution and earning an exaggerated eye roll in reply.

“Because she has it with Tommy, shut  _ up _ , oh my God.” There’s a silence that’s oddly comfortable. Barb is just beginning to toy with the idea of opening her book again when Carol speaks again. “She’s upset about it, isn’t she?”

Barb doesn’t want to talk about this. She stands abruptly, turning on her heel to leave.

“Wait, Barbara-” Carol’s hand curls around her arm. It’s surprisingly gentle, for Carol of all people. “Barbara. Please. Steve is- he’s upset too.”

And see, Nancy being upset, Barb gets that. As Nancy’s best friend, it’s hard not to get that. Nancy’s always had this passion for the unknown, for the confusing, for the mysterious, and Nancy has always been so hard to comfort. Nancy is restlessly curious. Her eyes track into corners by design, and so her eyes track to Jonathan Byers, in the corner, every time. He’s the most comforting mystery in town. Of course Nancy’s always been mildly obsessed with him. It’s natural, isn’t it?

But Steve Harrington?

Barb tells herself she turns around because she’s confused, not because Carol’s grip is so gentle, not because Carol’s voice is so pleading, not because she cares whether Steve is upset or not. She just wants answers. She’s not like Nancy; she prefers the mysteries to be solved for her.

"She misses him," Carol says softly. Barb isn't sure if that's true. She isn't sure if Nancy misses  _ Jonathan  _ or just her fascination with him. But maybe that's the same thing.

And, well, Barb misses seeing Nancy happy. So maybe she gets why Steve is upset, just a little.

-

No, really, he’s not kidding. He’s gonna lose his mind. Sitting in Joyce Byers's living room, crammed onto a threadbare couch between her and Karen, all staring at the array that's spread across the table, is just about one of the worst places he can justify being. It's a strange assortment. An unopened can of Coke, a few pieces of paper, a lighter, a wallet, and a pocket knife. Joyce had checked the wallet as soon as he let her, snatching up the photo inside. It's a good one of her, maybe three years younger, holding Will on her hip and smiling at him. She hasn't let go of it yet.

Karen pokes at the Coke with one manicured nail. "Nancy drinks this kind," she says.

Joyce's voice is thick. "Jonathan doesn't." And that's what's been eating at Hopper since he cleared it out. He knows better to say it, but exchanges a meaningful look with Karen anyway.

She's nosy. It was for his own good that he told her first, and because she caught him at his weakest, slumped outside the post office with a brown paper bag and a memory reel. She'd sat next to him, all prim and proper, just sat there and waited until he spoke. He'd said, "You know," and then hiccuped and taken another swig. "You know, I don't get it. A- a good kid, like that. Buys a Coke and disappears. Who the hell buys a Coke and then just-" he waved his hand aimlessly.

Karen had taken a moment to reply. And then she'd said, "He was a good kid," in some kind of agreement. "Nancy liked him."

Hopper had let his head fall back. "He's not gone yet." 'Cause, see, he's never been the cheerful type. But he needs to have some optimism about this. Joyce needs her son too badly for him not to have some optimism about this.

“He would be back by now,” Karen had said, all neat lipstick and shaking hands, and Hopper trusts her so much more than he wants to.

Now, he sighs, sitting up. He hands one of the papers to Karen. Watches as she unfolds it. Watches her eyebrows wrinkle and then smooth themselves out. “Our phone number,” she murmurs, sounding like she’s in pain. “He was supposed to call.” Hopper hands her the other note, the one that’s making his head pound. “Dellrise,” she says slowly. “What’s Dellrise?” They both look at Joyce.

“I have no idea.” She’s gone white, though, her hand trembling as she reaches out. One nail, dirty, bitten to the quick, taps the corner. Taps the dark splatter there. “Hopper…”

“Maybe he got a papercut or something,” he suggests immediately, because Joyce needs her son too badly to face the worst.

Joyce breathes in, then out, and nods. “Maybe.” The hope in her voice wrenches his heart so hard that he feels ill. On his other side, Karen is staring at the Cherry Coke, tears brimming in her eyes. The note with her number on it is crumpled in her hand. He was supposed to call. He would have called by now. “Have a little faith, Karen,” Joyce says. Her voice is trembling, but she stretches across him to squeeze her friend’s knee firmly. The photo grins up at them from her other hand.

“Have a little faith,” Hopper echoes, and he feels like maybe, for the first time in a long time, he can do that. He pats their entwined, shaking hands and tries for a smile. It’s an unfamiliar expression, and feels out of place when he’s in Joyce Byers’s living room, looking at the bloodstained paper from her son’s car, but Karen nods.

“I have faith,” she says, and smiles tightly at them. “Jonathan’s a good kid. I’ve always had faith in him.” Hopper looks down to their hands, piled together on Karen’s knee, and knows that in some inexplicable way, he does too. Jonathan is a good kid. Good kids should get to come home.

Sarah was a good kid too, but she got caught in everything she never deserved before he had even a chance to save her. This is different. He has a chance this time, as long as he keeps a little faith. He squeezes the hands folded up beneath his. “I need to talk to Nancy.” Joyce leans her head against his shoulder, nodding slowly.

“Nancy’ll give you faith,” she says, almost laughing. “It’s- God. It’s all over her face.”

Karen nods. She has the barest trace of a smile. “She trusts him,” she replies quietly, her voice thick with something like pride. “I didn’t even know…” she laughs for real. It’s hushed and wet, but it’s there, and the women are beaming at each other for it. “I didn’t even know how much she cared. But she does. She trusts him. She’d do anything to bring him back, I know it. I just know it.” Joyce nods, her tears soaking in the sleeve of Hopper’s jacket. He’s smiling too, he realises. Crammed onto the couch with two women he’s never understood, facing something he might never come to terms with, he finds himself smiling, watching Karen muster up the determination that runs so boldly in her daughter.

This, Hopper decides, this is what faith feels like. And if they’re standing on the threshold of tragedy, then nobody wants to step forward, but it’s so obvious in this moment that they can’t step back. Jonathan deserves better.  _ They _ deserve better. They deserve to know, dammit, and if the answer breaks them, they’ll cram onto this couch and lament themselves and shatter all together with their hands piled on Karen’s knee. They’ll cry until it hurts and keep crying until they can breathe without it. They’ll build their own little world of faith until they can face the real world again.

This is the moment Hopper loses his mind. It’s crazy to have faith, but Karen’s hand has stopped shaking under his, and he’s willing to go crazy for that.

-

“You’re not, like, jealous, right?”

Steve looks up slowly. He feels kind of like he’s in physical pain from the question, but tries not to let it show on his face. “Jealous?”

“Of Byers,” Tommy clarifies. He’s got a thoughtful look on, staring up at the ceiling. Tommy doesn’t look thoughtful very often. He prefers to gun it to a hundred and toss consideration aside. Steve’s always kind of liked that part of him, as annoying as it is. It keeps things interesting.

Also, because Tommy gets really weird when he thinks too much. Steve shakes his head, looking back at his notes. “Why the fuck would I be jealous of Byers?”

Tommy rolls his head over to stare at Steve’s profile. His eyes are all wide and dark again, like the other day. Steve doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like when Tommy gets all twitchy. Makes him nervous, like maybe Tommy might zone too far out and disappear altogether. “Well,” Tommy says, and then pauses. Sounds like he’s trying to find the words. “Nancy.” He’s never called her by just her name before. He always calls her “Little Miss Wheeler” or “Princess” or “Teacher’s Pet” or something annoying like that. It’s jarring to hear Steve’s favourite word slipping so easily out of Tommy’s mouth.

“What about Nancy?”

“She’s kind of obsessed with him, right?”

Steve almost snaps at him on instinct, but his tone isn’t cruel. He’s not poking fun. He’s just… pointing it out. And when he’s just pointing it out, then… it’s kind of true, right? Nancy is kind of obsessed with Jonathan, at least since he went missing. It’s driving her crazy not to know where he is. It’s not in the same way that it usually drives her crazy not to know things. It’s more intense. It burns in her eyes with a severity Steve can’t begin to fathom.

Except he can. He doesn’t want to, he doesn’t like it, but he can understand it all too well. There’s a part of Nancy that’s burning for Jonathan Byers, and Steve hates it, but there’s a part of him in that fire too. It’s the part that sears when he sees the empty seat, the part that thudded painfully against his ribcage when he heard the darkroom door open and it was only a Yearbook kid, the part that’s shaking as he stares at his chem notes. There’s a part of him that needs to see Jonathan again. It’s the part in his core that’s smarting with pain, the part of his brain that keeps replaying that moment in pre-calc. It feels like a million years ago, now, but if he could go back, to Jonathan ducking his head away, he’d-

He’d what?

That’s the part he hates, the part that doesn’t know. The part that memorised how it looks when Jonathan’s bangs swing down over his eyes. He hates that part of himself. But it’s part of him all the same. He wouldn’t be the same if every part of him didn’t burn with the need to live that moment again. Steve is losing part of himself without Jonathan here to spark that momentary anger in his stomach. He needs to see him, needs to touch him- grab his arm, maybe, or his shoulder, to keep him from turning away. Brush those stupid unbrushed bangs out of his eyes. He’d look so confused, that dumb little face he gets when someone shocks him, the one he got when Steve slammed him up against the lockers last year- and part of him hurts when he remembers that. He hates that part of himself, too, because it understands all of this better than he wants it to- his eyes wide, his lips shaking, parting slightly. Steve had paused, he remembers. It’s a hazy memory. He doesn’t remember why they were there, walking past each other in an empty hallway, doesn’t remember what happened, doesn’t remember  _ how _ he ended up with his fists balled into Jonathan’s sweater, but he remembers that face so fucking clearly. Every movement, he remembers, etched into his brain. He remembers Jonathan saying something like, “Let me go, Steve,” but he doesn’t know the exact words, because all he heard of it was his own name, echoing over and over in his ears.

Tommy is waiting for an answer, so Steve says, “I don’t mind,” and it’s true. He doesn’t mind.

“You don’t care?” Tommy asks skeptically. Steve twirls his pencil through his fingers.

“I don’t mind,” he repeats, and tells himself there’s no difference. Tells himself he doesn’t care. He doesn’t hate himself as much if he doesn’t care. It’s easier not to care that Nancy is burning for Jonathan than it is to admit he’s burning with her. It’s easier to pretend that he was angry when Jonathan was pinned up in his grip than it is to admit that his stomach might have flared with a different kind of fire, and it’s easier to say that it doesn’t make him smile when he imagines Nancy seeing Jonathan again. Normal guys don’t cheer themselves up by imagining their girlfriend running into someone else’s arms. Steve can’t take that part of himself out, but he can pretend.

Tommy doesn’t say anything else.

-

They’re halfway through their campaign when Will says it. More specifically, they’re halfway through his turn, the dice in his hand as he prepares to roll, and he just freezes up, staring at the board. Dustin and Lucas prepare to say something both annoyed and annoying, but he cuts them off, his voice monotone. “Jonathan’s missing.”

They go silent, staring at him.

He shakes the dice and lets them roll. “The night I slept over,” he continues, still entirely toneless. “He never came home. They found his car in the woods.” Mike and Lucas glance at each other, unsure what to do. Dustin is staring at the die that landed by his hand. “That’s a fourteen.”

Mike’s voice is shaking. “You killed it.” He doesn’t look like he’s going to be forthcoming with any Dungeon Master flair, not with the stark white his face has faded to. Will nods jerkily.

“Good.” He stands, grabbing his backpack. “I have to get home.”

Mike looks sick, and Dustin is still staring at the die, and Lucas just looks confused, and Jonathan is missing. There’s really nothing to say.

“Lucky roll,” Dustin finally says. Mike just nods, and he thinks, distantly, how cruel of a death sentence Fireball is. To be seared into nothing. To burn someone’s bones. He thinks about fire. He wonders what it sounds like when a Demogorgon screams.

Will’s eyes were too empty, just now. Mike can’t help but wonder if he was imagining it, too.

-

Not everyone has to imagine.

He cries again.

-

Carol is sitting on her front steps when he pulls up, smoking a cigarette that’s not lit anymore. Tommy pulls to a stop. She doesn’t glance up as he strolls towards her and takes a seat at her side on the cold wood. The house towers at their backs. Tommy’s never liked Carol’s house that much; it’s too big, too frigid, painted a forbidding kind of white that turns blue in the evening air. It’s too strict. It’s not meant for him.

She’s a picture, with her hair painted brown in the dim light, spilling darkly across her sweater. Tommy wonders about Jonathan Byers again, and about the camera he always had on hand. If Byers took a picture of her, sitting on the front steps, holding her cigarette loosely between glossed up lips, would it be obvious she belongs? If Byers took a picture of Tommy, hunching into himself next to her, would it be obvious he doesn’t?

“I’m worried about Steve,” she says, breaking him out of his thoughts. Or breaks him deeper in, because he thinks, unbidden, of Steve sitting here in his place, in that neat little blue polo of his, hand caught in styled hair, and suddenly all Tommy can imagine is Byers taking a picture of Carol and Steve sitting on her front steps, and how perfect of a photo it would be. “Tommy?” He jolts. She’s staring at him like she did in the diner the other day, her eyebrows wrinkled together with concern. He’s been concerning her a lot the past few days. He’s too discordant. Too incongruous. He’s not meshing into the world they’ve built for themselves. He should tell her why, he should tell her everything, he should reach into his pocket and-

“Yeah, me too,” he says instead. He’s already ruining their harmony. He doesn’t need to saw it apart with a paranoia that even he doesn’t understand. It’s probably nothing, anyway. “He’s worried.”

Carol’s eyes are unreadable. “And he doesn’t care? Princess’s thing with Byers, I mean.” They’ve always been similar like that. They think the same. Tommy’s not always sure if that’s a good thing.

“He doesn’t mind.”

“But does he care?” Carol presses. Tommy hadn’t tasted the difference in the questions before, but it’s obvious now, acrid, spilling across his tongue.

“He didn’t say.”

Carol swallows hard. She doesn’t say anything else. Tommy reaches across her lap, picking up the book she has sitting next to her. Great Expectations. Huh. He flips it open.

_ My father’s family name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing…. _

Carol leans onto his shoulder, closing her eyes. The light is dim. They were supposed to go on a date tonight, out to that pancake place in Clarksdale where she always orders too much and he always orders too little and they end up splitting the end at lunch the next day. He always likes those dates. He likes eating the leftovers. Makes him feel all domestic. Like they’re in love.

He doesn’t say it, and they don’t move. He just kisses her head and keeps reading. Now isn’t the time for words she doesn’t want to hear.

_ …(for their days were long before the days of photographs)... _

-

Nancy is going to lose her goddamn mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you have no idea how upset i've been without barb in the narrative. i love that girl so much. she is HERE and she is trying her BEST and she deserves PEACE and LOVE
> 
> tommy never got developed in canon i legally have the right to make him a complex character . just because he's an asshole doesn't mean he can't be interesting i promise there's a fun and cool redemption arc in him i just have to find it first. you can't criticise me for being in love with carol because that's illegal


	5. cherry coke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s like the tree has been wrenched apart at the seams, spilling red and black and blue blood from the wound. Its edges are pulsing with a phantom heartbeat. It’s a brief moment, maybe seconds, but there’s a hand reaching out of the gaping laceration, and a thin, red-stained hand, and a black t-shirt that’s ripped across the stomach, and-
> 
> Maybe the world is just a little stranger than she thought.  
> \--  
> or; Luke Sattler places a call to the police station.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope this is coherent?? i couldn't write more than three sentences a day and then i sat down and just. finished it all. i proofread it but it might still be janky? idk it's 1am so honestly it might be ugly as hell. i enjoyed writing it very much, though, so i hope you like it!! this is a chapter full of drama and nonbinary rights

Mike is laying on her bed when she gets home, sprawled out across the covers. He’s frowning in that overly dramatic way he has. Nancy tosses her bag onto the floor next to her desk. “Don’t you have your own room?” She’s too tired to entertain him right now. She’s so exhausted that her whole body aches with it.

Mike rolls onto his side. “Did you know about Jonathan?”

For the second time this week, Nancy thinks about Jonathan Byers and bursts into tears.

“Oh, fuck,” Mike says, startled, and she should reprimand him on his language, but she can’t right now. She can’t play the overbearing sister when she’s falling apart like this. All she really wants is to crawl into bed and hug him like she can’t let go, but they’ve never been like that, so she just sinks down with her back against the headboard and sobs into her knees. “Nancy?” he asks hopelessly. He’s shifted up so that he’s sitting next to her, almost touching but not quite. Those few inches hurt.

She wants to fall into his shoulder, wants to bury her face in his hair and wrap her arms around him tight and promise that she’ll never, ever disappear, but they’ve never been like that. She thinks about Will’s face in the car yesterday, the devastation that he’s carrying inside every plane of his face, and suddenly her whole body stings with the thought that Mike wouldn’t look like that if she were gone.

“Nancy?” he asks again, shifting a little closer, and she hugs her legs as tight as she can, trying to breathe. She can’t breathe.

“I love you,” she chokes out around a sob. Mike’s shocked blink hurts more than it should. “I love you, you’re the best little brother in the world, even though you’re a nerd and the worst person I’ve ever met, you’re the best, I-” she devolves into incoherency again.

Mike pats her shoulder awkwardly. “I love you too,” he says. It’s sort of robotic. “You’re- you’re good. There, there.” Nancy laughs through her next sob, which kind of hurts her throat but at least gets half a grin out of him. “Do you wanna… talk about it?” he offers. His eyes are skittish. He probably doesn’t really wanna talk, and the words are sticking her throat anyway, so she shakes her head.

“Do we still have my old bike?” she asks instead. Mike blinks in confusion again, but nods. She wants him to pat her shoulder again, because even that brief touch was at least a salve to the open wound she’s made of herself, but he just keeps staring. “Can we go on a ride?” She could use a Cherry Coke. That might work as well as a hug.

It takes a little longer, but Mike nods jerkily. “Sure. Yeah. We can go on a ride.” He’s the best little brother in the world. Nancy wants to fucking die.

-

The day ends and starts again, and at 6:11 in the morning on the 11th of November, just after dawn on the fifth day of Jonathan Byers’s disappearance, a few things happen simultaneously. Hawkins is still half-asleep, steeped in the pearly light of a waking, weak sun, steeped in curiosity that hovers on the edge of grief. Very few things happen at 6:11 a.m. on a Saturday in Hawkins; unless that Saturday is the 11th of November, and three things converge all at the same time.

Number 1:

Luke Sattler places a call to the police station. Flo isn’t in yet, but Hopper is slumped over his desk, drooling on a semi-typed list of theories, when the call comes through. He startles to his feet with a shout, lunging for the line. “Hello?” His voice is panicked from the lingering shock. He rubs his eyes and tries again. “Hello? Chief Hopper, Hawkins PD.”

“Hey, Chief.” Luke Sattler’s a tough thing. Nineteen years old and nine years of mining under his belt; never lets the damn world knock his smile about. Takes after his daddy like that. “Sorry to call so early. You, uh- you gotta get out here.” His voice is shaking like a leaf in a hurricane.

Hopper doesn’t ask why. He wants to be wrong just a little longer.

Number 2:

Nancy jolts awake with a shout already dying on her lips and a shudder running through her entire body. Her mind is reeling with the same dream as last night, as the night before that; riding home from school in Steve’s car, messing with the radio, making him laugh. A hand coming up from the backseat to smack her arm. A hazy voice that’s not quite familiar telling her that this channel is shit. Turning on Mirkwood and watching Steve jerk the wheel-

The boy in the backseat laughs every time they flip. She can’t hear it clearly, though. She thinks it’s because she doesn’t know what it sounds like. She doesn’t remember his laugh, especially not long and loud and unfettered like her dream conscribes. She didn’t hear it very often. She clings to the sound she thinks it might have been anyway.

Mike rolls over from where he’d fallen asleep stretched on top of her covers. “Nancy?” he mumbles, blinking sleepily. “You okay?”

_ Not in the fucking least, _ is the genuine answer, but Nancy can’t summon the words. Instead, she just breathes out a long, shaky breath, one that makes her whole body tremble. Inside her head is the echo of a laugh she’s never heard, the echo of a lie that shouldn’t hurt so badly. Her history project is still buried in her backpack. She’d gone to take it out yesterday and started hyperventilating in the middle of the library before she could even read the title. Mike reaches over and taps her shoulder. “You see that?”

“Huh?”

She points to the corkboard on her wall. There’s a picture pinned up from when she was ten, blurry and half-hidden under all her other memories. “That photo. That’s from ‘78.” Mike squints at it. He looks baffled. “We had a party for July 4th. Dozens of people came. It was Mom’s favorite part of that year, I think. We had sparklers and fireworks all set up in the backyard, and it was  _ so _ illegal, but nobody cares about that. Half of the police department was helping set them off anyway.” She pauses. Mike is waking up, watching her with bright eyes. “I remember,” she continues shakily, “When they got here, you and me cheered so loud that Dad spilled his beer. He was so annoyed. His chair smelled for days. And then you and Will tried to steal cans of it and Mom yelled at you. And Jonathan thought it was so funny.” Mike’s mouth twitches like he might smile, but it’s only half-formed. “He got his very first camera for his birthday that year. He started bringing it  _ everywhere. _ ” She stares at the corkboard as intently as she can. Her eyes are burning. “I think that’s probably the only picture he ever took of me,” she finishes. Her voice cracks.

Mike scoots a little closer, his head leaning slowly onto her shoulder. He doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing to say.

“I think,” Nancy says, and then pauses for a long moment. When she starts again, it’s stronger. “I think he stopped being my friend on purpose. Because he gave me that picture, and then he never talked to me again.” She’s talking about him in past tense. She fucking hates the taste of that. It’s sharply similar to the mournful hopelessness that makes her stomach turn. “With- well, with his dad and everything, I think- I think I just… couldn’t help enough. Everything was too much. I wasn’t enough for him.”

Mike’s gaze is sadder than she’s ever seen it. God, she doesn’t want to see him like this. It’s selfish, but she needs him to be happy. She needs someone in the godforsaken town to smile so it doesn’t feel so utterly fucking empty anymore. She needs her little brother’s idiot grin back. Instead, she gets, “I think he’s nicer than that. I bet he still thinks you’re great.”

Nancy doesn’t know what to say to that, but she doesn’t have time to figure it out before the morning air is shattered by the wail of a siren. It’s heading to the east end of Hawkins. The Byers’s house, she realises, and the quarry. Her eyes land squarely on the Cherry Coke can on her dresser.

Neither of them says it. Both of them hope they’re wrong.

Number Three:

Carol is sneaking home from Tommy’s. Her shoes are dangling in her hand, leaving her feet bare as she picks over the pinecones. It’s the shortcut through the woods. She fucking hates the woods, but she doesn’t want to explain to her mother why a neighbor caught her strolling down the street at the crack of dawn, so it’s the best bet she’s got. She wrinkles her nose as the mud splatters up her ankle and makes a mental note to just go to the pancake place next time. Curling up in his car when her front porch got too cold and then migrating to his room to fully warm up had been fun, yes, but was it worth getting mud on her bare feet at the crack of dawn?

Well, yes. But she still doesn’t like it.

She grabs the wire fence to steady herself with a huff. She’s sort of lightheaded. She’s still a bit high, she thinks (it was Tommy’s weed and he  _ offered, _ who was she to turn it down?), and she hadn’t gotten much sleep. She’d meant to, but then he’d put on that dumb record that she hates and fallen asleep with his arms twined around her, and she’d stared at the ceiling wondering why he bothers holding her like that when the soft crooning of, “there ain’t no way I’m ever gonna love you, so don’t be sad…” is echoing all around them. It’s classic Tommy irony. She’ll scream at him for it one day, maybe. If it hurts enough. The damning thing is that the way he holds her puts too much of a soft edge of it. She can’t scream when she feels like an angel in his arms. Sometimes, she thinks maybe he wants to be with her forever, but then he goes and plays a song that her weed-soaked brain thinks about too hard and the illusion goes splintering to the floor. So she laid in his arms all night and stared at the ceiling and once the record went silent, she thought about Barbara in the park.

It was a nice conversation. Carol has never wanted to talk to Barbara Holland, but her mind keeps wracking itself for reasons to do it again. That sarcastic sense of humor always gets her. It’s why Tommy makes her laugh so much. It’s why she took every partner project with Heather Holloway in English last year. She’s not naturally sarcastic on her own. Her sense of humor is just loud. When she tries for sarcasm, it turns sour and cruel before she can help it. People like Tommy, or Barbara, or Heather, they’ve got it nailed, but Carol is stuck with either cruelty or earnestness, which is a choice that shouldn’t even be a choice, and only is because she keeps choosing wrong.

Anyway. She shakes off the woozy feeling and lets go of the wire fence, and her wrist is seized by a stifling grip.

“Holy fuck-” She twists, the rush of adrenaline stomping her haziness to dust. Pallid fingers are clutching onto her, and a thin wrist that’s not supposed to bend like that, holy fuck, and before she can take in the face, there’s a  _ screaming _ so loud that she falls backwards. Her skull thumps soundly against the hard dirt and she yells, “Shit!” but it’s hoarse because the wind is knocked out of her lungs by the weight that’s landed on top of her, and holy fuck, and-

And she’s not sure what she’s seeing, but it’s like the tree has been wrenched apart at the seams, spilling red and black and blue blood from the wound. Its edges are pulsing with a phantom heartbeat. It’s a brief moment, maybe seconds, but there’s a hand reaching out of the gaping laceration, and a thin, red-stained hand, and a black t-shirt that’s ripped across the stomach, and-

And a looming shape that’s shining  _ grey _ in the low light emanating through the trunk, and she doesn’t think that it should be so close behind him, and-

And  _ “Ellie, close the damn door!” _ , and-

And it’s over.

And that’s the third thing that happens. It’s 6:14 a.m. on November 11th. On the east end of Hawkins, Jonathan Byers’s body has just been found.

-

It’s disturbing how often he’s found himself here recently, slumped in the front seat of his car at Benny’s diner, staring out his front windshield at the blank wall. There’s a cup of coffee going cold next to him, and a flask of whiskey going warm next to that. He needs to tell Joyce. Fuck, he doesn’t want to tell Joyce.

There’s a knock at his window.

“He’s dead,” he says as soon as it’s rolled down. “He’s fucking dead. I- fuck. Jesus Christ, I just- I don’t know what to do.” His voice trips over itself. It’s thick in his throat, thick in his chest, a taste like guilt imploding through his lungs. Guilt tastes like water, he thinks hazily, and he’s never going swimming again.

“Oh my God,” Karen says softly. It’s disturbing how often in the past five days he’s told her things he doesn’t want to know. “Did you find...?”

He aches for his whiskey, but his hands are too heavy with the weight of a waterlogged body to move, so he settles for staring at the blank wall of Benny’s diner through his windshield. “In the quarry. Bottom of a cliff.”

“Bottom of a cliff,” Karen repeats. Her voice is shaking. “You think he jumped?”

Hopper shrugs and lets her reach over him to grab the whiskey. “He’s dead,” he repeats. “Does it really matter?” His eyes fall to the side, watching her unscrew the flask. It’s funny, almost, to see china crafted homecoming queen turned housewife Karen taking a drink of whiskey from his beat-up flask in a dirty asphalt parking lot at 7 in the morning, but it’s also not funny at all, because Jonathan Byers is dead and Hopper can’t breathe.

It’s like he’s drowning. He wonders if Jonathan had time to feel the water.

-

Joyce screams so loudly that the empty flask trembles. When she collapses, a sob shattering her legs from beneath her, it’s into Hopper’s waiting hold, and he sinks to the floor with her, letting her lose her mind. He’ll help her get it back later. It’s better to be insane right now. It’s better to lose sense. She’s lost everything.

Karen has tucked Will into her arms, rocking him back and forth, murmuring gently into his hair. She’s saying, “I’ve got you, just cry, just cry, you’re here with me,” and Hopper’s eyes are burning so hot he thinks he’ll burn his whole face up. “I’ve got you. You’re here with me.” And Jonathan isn’t. And Jonathan was at the bottom of a cliff for five days.

Joyce sobs like the world is ending because, by God, it is.

-

Luckily, nobody woke up when she opened the back door. And luckily, they’d fixed the creaky stair a week ago. Unluckily, it’s been an hour, and Carol is sitting on her bed, stuck in a staring contest with a child she knows nothing about. So far, she’s gathered that it’s a girl (or at least it’s not a boy, and according to Barbara, that makes it a girl) and that it’s not from a hospital, even though it’s got on a hospital gown under the denim jacket it’s drowning in. 

God, she shouldn’t call a child an it. She hates being called an it. The school administrators do it sometimes when she’s fucked up worse than usual, and it never fails to make her feel like shit.

She breaks the silence between them with a, “You’re a girl,” that’s much more unsure than intended. The kid blinks and then doesn’t answer, and Carol’s certainty wavers more intensely. “Are you a girl?”

“Girl,” the kid repeats with a frown. Carol can’t tell if it’s confused or displeased, so she tries another question.

“Are you a boy?”

That just deepens the frown. “No. Not a boy.” Each syllable is enunciated separately. Maybe English is the kid’s second language? Do they speak English in tree worlds reminiscent of  _ The Thing? _ Maybe they learn speech slower. Or maybe the one is just, like, slow.

“Okay. So you’re a girl?” Carol asks. That gains a shake of the head. “Well, that doesn’t make sense.” It made sense yesterday when she was thinking about it, but now that she’s sort of high and tired and stuck in a mind loop of weird worlds inside fantastical wounds, it’s getting very confusing. “What do I call you, then?”

“Ellie,” the kid says confidently.

Carol blinks. “Oh. Okay.” Ellie seems like a weirdly normal name for someone that fell out of a bleeding tree, but it’s pretty. Ellie is better than it, in any case. “You’re Ellie, then. Do you want to take a nap?” Ellie doesn’t seem very tired, but Carol is, and the morning light is heavy on her eyes.

Ellie frowns again. It’s definitely from confusion this time. “Nap?” Carol is tempted to ask about the language curriculum inside the tree, but Ellie’s eyes have been plastered wide open with paranoia since she manoeuvred them inside the house, and she doesn’t want to spook her. What if she’s an alien?

Okay, maybe that’s enough thinking for the morning. “Yeah. It’s like… a short sleep. I didn’t sleep last night. You can have the bed if you want.” Ellie’s eyes widen even further, and Carol quickly backtracks, stumbling over her words as she tries to find her error. “I mean, you don’t have to take a nap, and you don’t have to take the bed, it’s probably weird to sleep in a stranger’s-”

“Don’t wanna be alone,” Ellie interrupts, strangely timid. Carol stops short.

Oh.

That sort of makes sense. Ellie’d been in there with that… that grey thing, that  _ monster _ , anyone would be scared, God. Carol’s catching idiocy from her boys. “Okay. Here.” She stands up. Ellie startles, reaching out, but Carol smiles as soothingly as she can. “I’m not leaving. Don’t worry, just give me a second, okay?” She’s as quick as she can be in pulling out some sleep shorts that’ll probably fit and her softest t-shirt. “These’ll be more comfortable. Unless-” she frowns, looking at the pyjamas. Ellie freezes halfway to grabbing them. “They’re girl clothes. You don’t mind girl clothes, right?”

Ellie shrugs and takes them. “Maybe if I nap, I will be a girl.” That’s the longest sentence yet! Carol politely turns around under she hears the bed creak again.

“I don’t think that’s how that works, really, but maybe. You don’t have to, though.” She peels back the covers and tucks them both in. “We can talk more, though. You can get a shower, too.” She’d wiped Ellie’s up as much as she could with napkins when they’d first gotten into her room, but she wasn’t a miracle worker. There were stains like blood, like black dirt, all over the kid’s body, tattooing pallid skin with a story that Carol would cringe at if she weren’t so goddamn tired. “And I’ll make you… breakfast. But… nap…” she falls off into a yawn. 

Ellie giggles. “Nap.” And then, hesitantly, “Friends?”

Carol cracks open one eye and looks at this little kid, who’s staring at her with a wide open face that reflects the morning sunlight into something darker. Into something to do with blood and monsters and hands reaching out of bleeding trees. Something to do with a face Carol is sure she didn’t really see, or would be sure she didn’t really see if she were sure of anything at all. The trouble with all of this is that she can’t be sure. It’s like LSD. She’s never done LSD, but she thinks if she did, it would go something like this. Maybe Tommy’s weed was laced?

But when she says, “Yeah, we’re friends,” Ellie’s smile is definitely real. So maybe the world is just a little stranger than she thought.

-

He hopes that Ellie’s okay. God. Maybe she’ll say hi to Will for him. That’d be nice. He hopes that Will’s okay, too, even after all of this. He hopes Nancy isn’t too mad that he didn’t help her with their history project. She’s always been a perfectionist. She’d understand, though, right?

He wishes he could explain all this to her, but the monster’s coming, and he’s so tired of running, and this goddamn crying isn’t quiet enough anymore.

-

Nancy buys a Cherry Coke from the store.

She doesn’t drink it. She just sits on her bed, holding it in her hand. She’s crying, she thinks, but she can’t really tell, because her face is as numb as the rest of her. The look on her mom’s face and the endless iterations her imagination is pulling up are all she can see, clouding over her eyes until she can’t make out the can anymore.

God, God, she’s so fucking stupid. All this time, she thought she didn’t know how to be enough for him, but it wasn’t her. It’s just that nothing was good enough for him. Nothing except a cliff and a half dozen lies left behind and the echo of them in a half dozen pairs of ears as he fades away from everyone else.

No wonder he lied about Will. Did he even fucking care about Will?

She knows it’s not fair. It’s not fair at all. She shouldn’t be so  _ mad _ . But she’d believed in him, believed in him so much it hurt her whole body to feel it, and now that belief has plummeted off the side of the quarry and she’s left with nothing but this emptiness that she has to fill somehow, and anger fits so easily into the gaping niche. It’s so much easier to be mad. She blinks back her tears, but they’re too thick. She can’t even see the Coke in her hands, not through the haze of grief and anger and an emptiness that she thinks she’s going to feel for the rest of her life.

“Jonathan,” she hisses out, the word poisoned with a rage she doesn’t even really feel, because she needs to hear it. Nobody’s going to say his name with anything but grief for a while. She needs one last iteration that’s something other than sad.

It’s not real anger, though, because she can’t even hear herself over the sound of laughter echoing from her dream, and all of it is pointless anyway because Jonathan is dead and she’s going to fail her history project and she’s too numb to breathe. She can’t breathe. It’s like she’s drowning.

She’s so fucking stupid.

-

“No matter what,” Steve says to himself. The empty pool ripples in front of him, refracting the words back. “No matter what. No matter fucking  _ what _ .”

Fuck the quarry, and fuck the body, and fuck the way the newscaster said his name. She said it wrong. She said it fucking wrong. Fuck the news, anyway. Fuck the funeral he won’t be invited to. Fuck the casket he’ll never see. Fuck suicide, because Steve’s not a fucking idiot, and he knows. He fucking knows.

“No matter what,” he says again, firmer. Jonathan didn’t kill himself. Jonathan is… is strong. Is stubborn. Is the kind of guy that would get pissed if he knew what the newscaster was saying he did. Because Steve fucking knows. So no matter what, he’s going to find him, just like he promised, and he’s going to drag him as far away from Hawkins and it’s stupid fucking lies and it’s stupid fucking way of saying Jonathan Byers’s name and it’s stupid fucking quarry where Jonathan  _ didn’t die. _ Steve’s going to save them both.

Jonathan doesn’t get to hide from him. The game isn’t fair anymore.

-

“Princess. Hi. Shit, hi.”

“God, what do you  _ want?” _

“...”

“I’m hanging up.”

“No! No, I- I need to talk to you.”

“Then talk to me. That’s what the damn telephone is for, Tommy.”

“No, in person. Please.”

“I’ll see you Monday.”

“Before then. Nancy, please. Just… come over. Just for a bit. Please, I need to tell someone. I should have told you before, and I’m sorry, but I’m telling you now, just come over. Just come see this, please, it can’t wait until Monday, it can’t wait at all, I-”

“Fine! Fine, God. I’m coming. I’ll get Steve to drive me over.”

“Thank you. I’m sorry. Fuck. Nancy, I’m so sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> like i said. drama and nonbinary rights
> 
> drop a comment!! lemme know what you thought!! ((: thank you for reading, each and every one of you is amazing


	6. the rut in the road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Someone knows,” he repeats, and then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the weight that’s been cracking all his bones for the past three days, and Nancy _knows._  
>  \--  
> or; Orange light from the streetlamp reflects off the red paint, oversaturating the open door as it swings in the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing chapters either takes me two weeks, two days, or two hours, apparently. the inspiration just SMASHED into me and i went at sonic speed. i proofread it a few times, but uh. i'm awful at proofreading so i'm sorry for any mistakes. i hope you guys enjoy this chapter!!!

Tommy’s always been a fairly average guy. It didn’t really bother him until he was, oh, twelve? Thirteen? Because, you know, everything bothered him when he was thirteen. Even when his life falls apart (when he graduates, when Carol is finally done, when his dad catches him smoking, when all the inevitable little disasters come tumbling down on top of him), he doesn’t think he’ll ever be angry like he was at age thirteen. Even when it’s four in the morning and he’s biting his lips raw to keep from screaming, bursting at the seams with a thousand emotions he doesn’t know how to feel, he’s never been so fucking resentful since then, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever be so fucking resentful ever again. He thinks if he ever is, he’ll just crumble up into pieces, because to be that angry is to be nothing at all. It’s something about age thirteen. He’ll never be thirteen again.

But thirteen or seventeen or twenty eight or forty five is all the same, anyway. He’ll always just be Tommy. He’ll always just be average.

When he was thirteen, you know, he wanted to die. Of course he did. Didn’t everyone? He was 5’5” and pale, with a chest too skinny for the baby fat that still clung to his face and penchant for getting bruised whenever he breathed too hard. He swears he’s still bruised all along his insides from the constant pulsing disgust and anger and resentment. The resentment, God, it’s what he hates most; it still catches him sometimes, when he’s not careful. It’s natural, you know? Because Tommy’s always just been average, but Steve has never settled for the average on anything. He set standards and broke records like breathing. Tommy could hardly get a regular breath in and out after sprinting to class with his dumb, spindly thirteen year old legs. Steve broke 5’8” that year, and Tommy stopped walking next to him, because the resentment boiled his organs to bits. All he’s ever done for Steve is make him look better. Make him look taller, or smarter, or cooler, because Steve has never been average, but next to Tommy he looks like the goddamn sun.

See, Tommy’s not so torn up about that anymore. It still stings sometimes, because some days he’s so  _ tired _ of this stupid life he lives, where he pretends the future isn’t coming and pretends he’ll be ready when it does. It’s so fucking taxing, and then Steve will do… do something. Strut into the room with that shiny grin, or run a hand through his goddamn hair, or wink at some girl that happens to catch his eye, and Tommy will just suddenly be so tired of watching him. He doesn’t… he doesn’t have those other thoughts about Steve, not anymore. He did for a while. For a long time. When he was thirteen, he did, because sometimes at night he would scream into his pillow and pound his knees with his fists because  _ he’d never be fucking enough, he’d never be good enough for Steve,  _ and. Well, he just doesn’t think about Steve like that anymore. Probably a good thing.

But he’s not so angry nowadays. He’s just… tired. He’s tired of watching a timer run down on everything and everyone he’s ever known, because there is one year, six months, and fourteen days until the stone drops, but it’s already rolling, and he can feel the phantom weight crushing him to pieces, and sometimes it’s just so easy to wish he was thirteen again. Because Tommy wanted to die when he was thirteen, and he thinks it might be easier if he could want to die again. Now he’s seventeen and he’s tired, and he doesn’t want to die, because it’s something about age seventeen; he is petrified of endings. Thirteen is for anger. Seventeen is for fear.

All this to say that when Tommy craves that anger, it’s because he is stranded alone in his room at four in the morning, thinking about the ticking timer, thinking about the rolling stone, thinking about how his insides are still bruised. Anger tumbles to frenzy tumbles to maniac hopelessness; an unforgiving rollercoaster, an intensely punishing cycle, and it sticks up into that thirteen year old mind, tumbling all over a brain that’s too young for ignorance and too old for bliss. The rollercoaster is… it’s an anchor, see. It’s a merciless repetition, but it is repetition all the same, and it is safe in its own twisted, dangerous way. When he was thirteen, Tommy wanted to die, because it was something solid to grasp onto when everything else felt like it was crumbling around him.

He doesn’t say all of that. He’s not good with personal stuff. Instead, he says, “You know,” and then stops because his voice is shaking. “You know, why’s it have to be suicide, huh?” He’s never seen anything like the look on Nancy’s face, but it makes every bruise on his inside sting. He rushes to continue before she can say something that tears him apart. “It’s just… his car, I know, his car, it was in the woods, and why would he leave it there if he didn’t want to hide it, but I just…” he heaves out a shaky breath. Steve is standing behind Nancy, one arm hooked around her waist, but the other reaches out hesitantly. Tommy shakes his head. “Everyone’s so certain. Why- why are we so certain? Why do the police think that it- that it has to be- I mean,” he has to pause again, because he sounds insane, but he can’t draw in a full breath, so he gives up trying. “I mean, what if it were me, you know?” Because Tommy has wanted to die before. He knows how that certainty feels. “Like, what if I was at the bottom of a cliff? It’s- the police, they’d say, oh, well- well maybe his engine stalled, and he went for help, and the ground gave way. Why can’t the ground give way for Byers? What’s so different about him, huh?”

Nancy is all tense, tied up into knots, her whole body trembling, but her eyes don’t leave his face. Steve’s bottom lip is pulled between his teeth, rolling slightly as he regards Tommy with something like concern. God. Fuck concern. Fuck concern, and confusion, and pity, fuck all of it. Tommy doesn’t have time to be pitied. He has too many desperate conclusions to draw.

“You know- you know what’s different?” He swallows hard. Steve’s hand twitches slightly towards him again. “It’s just ‘cause he’s better than us. Better than me, you know? Like, me, I’m just some dumb kid, I’m just some highschooler, but he- you know, he’s different, and people call him names, and he listens to The fucking Kinks and he doesn’t even know how to read Shakespeare but somehow he still understands it better than everyone else in class, and he- he’s not just some dumb kid! But he’s still, what, sixteen? Fifteen? When’s his birthday?”

That hits him very solidly in the chest, suddenly. He’s hardly regulating his words at all, but he cuts himself off and stares down at the floor. When’s Jonathan’s birthday?

“Fifteen,” Nancy says quietly. Her voice is thick. “Hopper gets it wrong too. His birthday’s on the seventeenth.”

Tommy wishes he didn’t know again. “Oh.”

Six days. Jonathan’s birthday was in six fucking days.

He takes a long, shaky breath again, trying to rein himself in. None of this will make sense if he doesn’t say it right. “Look, Nance, I-” he closes his eyes. He can do this. “I’m sorry.” It’s not how he means to start this off, but it tumbles out before he can stop it, softer than he’s used to hearing himself. He can feel Steve stiffen. It’s a miracle he hasn’t burst out with a comment yet. (It’s not, really, because Steve gets quiet when he’s scared, but Tommy doesn’t want him to be scared, so he pretends he doesn’t know that.) “I just- Stevie- he always tells me! You always tell me, Steve, you always tell me when you’re skipping, and I was  _ worried! _ I mean- I just- I was scared, okay? And Carol said that if I was going to be so dramatic, I might as well go look for you, and I mean, I knew she was making fun of me, of course I knew that, but she had a point, and I just. I wanted to find you. I wasn’t supposed to-” His eyes are stinging. It’s something about the way Steve’s face has dropped, staring at him with big round eyes, something like guilt twitching between his brows. Or the way Nancy’s hands have dropped from where they were crossed over her chest, reaching out towards him like it’s instinct.

It’s so funny, he thinks, in a moment of strange hysteria, because nobody ever reaches out for him on instinct, and the only person that’s giving a shit about him for any uncalculated reason is Nancy  _ goddamn _ Wheeler, because Tommy is crying in his own kitchen about Jonathan Byers.

There’s something distinctly wrong with this moment. Tommy wants to think it’s the absurdity, but he’s pretty sure it’s actually just that Jonathan isn’t here to take that stupid look off both their faces, and that’s a thought he doesn’t want to understand.

“I just wanted to find Steve,” he says again, kind of pathetically. He directs his words at Nancy again. It’s easier to face her with this. It’s so fucking hard to face Steve with his feelings so bare. It’s not natural. It’s not what their friendship was made for. Nancy, though- he can ease his masks a little bit with her, somehow. So he keeps his eyes on hers and ignores the weight of Steve’s gaze. “I’d checked the bluff, and I was taking the shortcut towards his house to see if he was at home, because maybe he was sick or something, and I just- I just- I didn’t mean to, okay? I was just- I thought it was weird! I was curious! But I heard- God, I heard the cops, and can you  _ imagine-  _ I panicked, you have to get it, I panicked, I ran. I’m sorry. But I just-”

Nancy’s hands come up to his shoulders, squeezing tightly. “Tommy, what the hell are you saying?” Her voice is low, rushed. Her face is wide open, painted with a look he can’t meet head on. It’s too earnest. Tommy doesn’t do well with honesty. No wonder this is so hard.

“I was speeding,” he recounts, and Nancy’s brows pinch at the switch of topic, but she doesn’t interrupt. “This morning. I was going twenty over, I didn’t even realise.” He’d been staring out at the road completely vacant. He could barely register his own actions. He- he hated driving, knowing what he knew. Being in his car was fucking suffocoating, and he didn’t even notice himself hunching forward, didn’t even notice his weight shifting heavily onto the gas. “Was supposed to meet my mom at church. Got brought into the station instead, since it was so high over, and, see-” his lips press together for a moment. It’s so hard to articulate what’s running through his mind. “See, they brought all his stuff in. Tossed it on a table. His, uh, his jacket, his lighter. His keys.” His voice gives out.

There’s a moment where Nancy’s eyebrows draw in slightly, and he thinks she might get it. But she keeps staring. So he keeps talking, saying a thousand other things because it’s so hard to get this stupid secret out.

“See, see, it’s tricky, ‘cause of the car. That’s what makes everything so tricky. ‘Cause, Jesus Christ, he parked his car out in the woods, so it was planned, right? It was all a plan! He lied to everyone and then he parked his car out in the woods because he was  _ certain.  _ When you kill yourself, you gotta be certain. It’s so damn hard, so damn scary, so you gotta be sure. It’s so tricky when you know he was sure.”

Steve twitches again, and then he’s grabbing onto Tommy’s shoulder almost desperately and dragging him in. Tommy startles, but he goes easily, folding under Steve’s arm as Nancy’s hand comes up again too. Her fingers knot into Steve’s, holding each other over his arm. It’s weirdly comforting. It also launches Tommy into an awkwardly vivid memory of his parents, so he quickly shoves down any kind of warm feeling. His head falls into Steve’s shoulder anyway, though. That, at least, is a perk of being shorter.

“The ground would give way, if it was me,” he says, and he knows they know he  _ knows, _ and that’s terrifyingly revealing, but also makes it easier to keep talking, somehow. “It’s not normal to fall on purpose.”

Steve says it, his voice rough with an emotion Tommy doesn’t recognise. “He didn’t fall on purpose.” Tommy’s eyes fall closed. He can’t cope with that look on Nancy’s face right now. Slowly, he shakes his head.

“You have to be certain,” he whispers. His throat is serrated by some kind of fear. These words- they’re dangerous, somehow. “He wasn’t certain. I know he wasn’t. He didn’t plan it. His car wasn’t meant to be there. And-” God, he sounds like a maniac, but he can’t stop himself, not now. “-someone knows that. Someone knows that he didn’t want to fall.”

Nancy breathes in sharply. “What do you mean? Who knows?” she asks urgently. Tommy half expects her touch to fall away, but instead their joined hands grip his shoulder tighter, and the sudden swelling feeling in his throat makes it hard to answer.

“I don’t know. I don’t think he did either.” He pulls away from the hug and squares his shoulders, taking a deep breath. “I should have told the police. But I mean- how could I explain that? It’s never a coincidence, I don’t think. Not- not with this.”  _ Not with Jonathan Byers, _ he means. Nancy and Steve understand. It’s sort of scary how easily they believe in a kid they didn’t even know. But Tommy’s prayed every night for something to show him that this stupid suicide rumor was wrong, and he has it. He has it. He knows. He can’t believe in coincidences about Jonathan Byers anymore. “He didn’t want to die,” he says. His voice is the strongest it’s been all day. “Dying people don’t leave the car running.”

Nancy’s eyes are so full of hope that Tommy’s chest stings. He almost looks at Steve, but he thinks he might start crying if he has to see that expression twice, so he keeps his gaze steadily on hers.

“Someone knows,” he repeats, and then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the weight that’s been cracking all his bones for the past three days, and Nancy  _ knows. _ “I ran when I heard the cops,” he says, because Steve still looks confused. “But when I found it, I-” he laughs breathlessly, dropping the keys into Nancy’s outstretched hand. She lifts them up with marvel. She’s delicate with them, like they’re a treasure, like they’re sacred- they are to her, he thinks. He doesn’t know what Nancy’s thing with Jonathan is, but whatever it is, it’s holy to her. Her face looks like the goddamn  _ sun.  _ “He didn’t jump,” Tommy says firmly. The taste of the truth is addictive.

Steve echoes Tommy’s laugh from a moment ago, though it’s choked with the tears swelling up in his eyes. He reaches out, his fingers tracing along Nancy’s as they look at the keys. Their faces are open, full of awe, full of  _ hope,  _ and- well. It clicks, sort of. But Tommy tosses the thought aside to dwell on later. It’s not what matters right now.

It’s so goddamn liberating. Jonathan didn’t die on purpose. Somehow, the bruises inside Tommy’s ribs ache a little less.

Soon, they’ll have to address the worst parts of this. Nancy’s mind is already catching up. He can see it in her face, see the tightening of her jaw as the new implications sink in. If someone copied Jonathan’s keys, if they planted those keys on a body nobody had found yet, if they  _ knew where the body was, _ then Jonathan Byers’s suicide has just become a murder. Tommy reaches out to touch the keys for himself. It’s exhilarating how much lighter they are now that Steve and Nancy know. A poor mistake, making them, he reflects, his lips twitching slightly. God knows Tommy doesn’t understand Nancy’s thing with Jonathan, but even he can understand that her entire focus is about to shift onto whoever did this. They’ve damned themselves by taking him away. Tommy’s not sure why he feels so certain that Nancy is able to crush them under her heel. It’s not just the rage, not just the grief, not just the overwhelming love that have raced through her veins so intensely ever since Jonathan vanished. There is a strength in those delicate hands that Tommy doesn’t think he could ever match. Nancy doesn’t have time to be exhausted of herself. Nancy doesn’t need to be, not when she has hands and eyes and ideas that nobody else can match.

Nancy Wheeler is still a princess, Tommy decides. But princesses get to slay the dragons too.

He watches her smile, her face still so open and warm, even as her eyes narrow, a thousand speculations racing into them as her admiration turns to inspection. He can’t help the grin that comes to his own face. Tommy could use a friend like Nancy, probably. Nancy doesn’t run on the same timers that Hawkins does.

Jonathan never did either. That was the real reason Tommy got so caught up with him in English last year, if he can admit it to himself. He needs people like that. And maybe- maybe, if just for right now, they need him too. His back straightens at the thought. (He’s never been needed before. He pointedly keeps his gaze from drifting to Steve, because he doesn’t want to hurt right now.)

He’ll never be thirteen again. Right now, though, six days before Jonathan’s sixteenth birthday, Nancy meets his eyes and nods firmly, and when Tommy nods back, he’s glad to be seventeen instead. There’s a thrill in his blood that he’s never felt before. Three days ago, sitting across the table from Nancy and Steve, he’d watched their faces fall into a despair so fierce that he was dragged into it like a black hole, because none of them knew yet. Someone took Jonathan away. And now, someone is going to pay.

-

She means to scream. It was inherent, halfway out of her lungs, but somehow, she chokes on it, and her scream is just a hoarse, “Oh, fuck.”

The teeth snap down. A red spray on the red door.

The scream echoes into a dusty, dark grey sky.

-

Honestly, she’d just come to get her book back. It had taken ten minutes of sitting in her car, staring up the sidewalk at the big white house. There’s something menacing built into those walls. When she finally knocks, there’s a loud crash, and then another, and then it’s very silent. Five seconds later, something crashes again. There’s a loud curse, for good measure, and then rushed footsteps and Carol yanks the door open, breathing heavily. There’s flour on her nose.

Barb shoves her hands in her pockets. “Uh. You stole my book.” Carol just stares at her. There’s something like a flush on her cheeks. Barb rocks back and forth on her heels, feeling very self conscious for some reason. There’s something about Carol’s eyes that pry just a bit too deep. In school, Carol’s gaze means nothing, but even from two meetings it’s become painfully clear that Carol Perkins is not the same girl outside of school.

“Barbara,” she says, the word half a sigh. Barb almost bristles at it, but it’s not a disappointed sound. It’s almost… relieved. She peers closer at Carol’s face and feels a flare of suspicion when she sees a mischievous crinkle under the flour on her nose. “You, uhm-” She blinks. “Are you wearing overalls?”

“What-” Barbara’s gaze snaps down to her outfit. “I- so what? Like you and your… your My Little Pony pyjamas have any high ground.”

Carol rolls her eyes, but a smile has curled up at the side of her mouth. “These My Little Pony pyjamas are cute,” she argues, and then adds, almost coyly, “And so are your overalls.” And Barbara doesn’t even have a chance to  _ begin _ processing that before Carol is yanking her inside and closing the door. “It’s cold out, keep the air out. Oh, and come with me-” the little crinkle in her nose is back. Her hand is still twined around Barb’s wrist, as gentle as it was in the park. “Come with me. You were  _ wrong.” _ Carol sounds positively gleeful with the revelation.

Barb follows without thought. It’s easier to oblige Carol than it should be. She’s only half processed the statement, mostly distracted by the flour streaked under Carol’s ear and whether or not she should wipe it off. It would be easier than pointing it out, anyway. She’s not sure Carol’s ever listened to someone else’s words in her life. Except, apparently, whatever Barb was wrong about.

“Ellie!” Carol says, and then she’s letting go of Barb’s wrist to wrap up some kid in a hug, and-

And the kid stares Barb straight in the eyes over Carol’s shoulder. There’s a paranoia to the sharp features, but it’s soothed by a stronger curiosity. The same way Nancy looks when a boy says something interesting. Half-shock, half-amusement, and an undercurrent of inherent fear. Barb tries for a smile and a small wave.

The kid sticks out a hand once Carol lets go. “Ellie.”

“Barb,” Barb replies. “Well, Barbara. Barb for short.” She sees Carol mouth the nickname out of the corner of her eye, looking contemplative, and can feel a strange heat in her face. Ellie nods.

“Like Ellie. Or Jon.”

Barb freezes.

Carol pats Ellie’s shoulder. “Hey, careful now, hon,” she says. Her voice is somehow both light and intensely wary. That, the tremor of fear, is what makes Barb’s blood run cold. Carol’s other hand is halfway stretched towards her, as if to stop her leaving, but she- God, she can’t leave now. She laces her fingers into the ones Carol’s outstretched as a kind of reassurance.

Ellie’s wearing a denim jacket. Barb reaches out slowly and grasps the collar. Ellie lets her, and just watches with big, piercing eyes. Two sets of eyes on her, stronger than her fragile soul, pulling her apart, but it’s not uncomfortable right now, not when her fingers are flipping up the denim.

“Like Jon,” she murmurs. She smoothes her touch over the faded sharpie. She should have recognised this on sight, she scolds herself mentally. Nobody else is still wearing their jacket from eighth grade. Nancy’s handwriting had been sloppy back then, especially with a marker on fabric, and for a moment she thinks it says “Bellrise,” instead. She chokes on a disbelieving laugh. “Wow. Where’d you get this?” She almost adds, “And who are you?” but Ellie’s eyes feel like they know everything about her already, and she can’t bring herself to feel like a stranger.

Ellie’s face dims. “Jon.” The admission comes as a whisper, in a voice so raw that Barb’s chest rips open with it. Carol murmurs another soft reassurance and presses a kiss into Ellie’s hair. Ellie nods, as if agreeing. “Okay.”

“Yeah,” Carol says. Her hand tightens in Barb’s. “He’s okay.”

Barb has no idea what’s going on, but Ellie’s gaze meets hers again, full of a fierce determination that makes Barb’s heart jump. God, how is she scared of a preteen-

Huh. She scans Ellie, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Huh. Is that what you meant?” she murmurs to Carol. Carol smiles sweetly. “That’s not an answer, sweetie,” she says in a mocking mentor voice.

She earns a dramatic eye roll and a, “You’re so picky,  _ honeypie,”  _ that almost makes her laugh. Carol kisses Ellie’s head again. “Ellie is just Ellie,” she says. “You can say she, though. She says everyone always has, so she doesn’t mind it.”

Barb takes a moment to process the information. Honestly, she thinks that had she met an Ellie Who’s Just Ellie outside, where this house was nothing but malicious white walls, she’d have been baffled into saying something rude. But there’s something about a warm living room with Carol Perkins in My Little Pony pyjamas and a little kid who says Jonathan Byers is okay (Barb hasn’t fully processed that yet, but it’s part of the giddiness building in her chest, she thinks) that makes it feel simple. Anything is possible right now. Anything is possible right here.

She squeezes Carol’s hand. “I guess you were right,” she admits. Carol’s grin is nothing like the calculated smirk from school. God, it’s blinding. It’s like looking into the sun. “Don’t get used to the feeling, babycakes,” she adds, but she’s pretty sure the way her breath hitches detracts its jabbing value. Carol’s grin doesn’t even waver.

She makes a mental note not to tell Nancy about this. Otherwise, years of teasing are going to bite her in the ass.

-

It’s midnight. Orange light from the streetlamp reflects off the red paint, oversaturating the open door as it swings in the wind.

-

Nancy isn’t renowned for her memory. She’s more famed for her ability to lose her pencil while actively taking notes and walk into the wrong class coming back from the washroom because she couldn’t remember which door she’d come from. It’s not her fault, seriously! She just has so  _ many  _ things in her head. It’s so hard to cram other things in alongside it all. Some things, though, just stick. Innocuous as a moment may be, it can stay highlighted in her consciousness for years, just so long as she doesn’t have to maintain a memory of the important conversations she has more than ten seconds after they end. (Recently, her counselor had suggested someone that she should talk to about college recommendations. She’d called it “vital.” Nancy had been trying to remember who the hell that might be for almost sixteen days. She had actually come up with it once, but it was late at night after she’d woken up randomly and stared at the ceiling for somewhere between two minutes and an hour, and by the time she got up for school, she’d forgotten again.)

It’s kind of funny, though, right? Because on October 30th, 7:15 A.M., Nancy remembered vividly sitting in Barb's car with her history notebook open on her lap to review her notes. She hadn't actually been reviewing. She'd been watching the sun reflect off the side mirror and wondering if her hair looked okay. History was so  _ boring- _ God, she'd rather think of anything else.

Barb said, "Heather," in a way that was both a statement and a question.

"No, I'm Nancy."

"You know that's not what I- Heather Holloway." Nancy glared at her. "That's also not what I mean."

Nancy's glare deepened at the exasperation that had crept in Barb's voice. "You only ever talk about her to make fun of me. I'm allowed to make this face." Barb rolled her eyes, but snickered a bit all the same.

"I'm not making fun of you. I'm  _ not,  _ stop giving me that look. It's just… you remember July 4th last year?"

July 4th, 1982. A brilliant night, honestly, with a bonfire in the backyard of some family friend Nancy had never spoken to and dozens of probably-illegal fireworks and a whole group of adrenaline dizzy teens stumbling off into the woods together. Carol Perkins, sitting on Steve Harrington's shoulders, singing the national anthem at the top of her lungs. Heather Holloway giving Nancy that pretty little grin and saying, "God, but you look nice," and some fumbled compliment she'd managed in reply. Vickie Montgomery announcing, "Party at mine, people!" because her parents were out of town for some fucking reason. Nancy almost going, because her pinky finger was hooked into Heather Holloway's and they'd been leaning on each other to laugh and Heather's breath had been so gentle on her ear.

Barb saying, "Please, God, let's not go," and Nancy watching Heather disappear into the streetlight glow.

"Yeah, I remember." She'd been mad for days afterward. It was a sort of fond, bitter longing now, though. She still wishes she'd gone, but painting her nails in Barb's room and watching Rocky Horror twice in a row had been fun too.

Barb had said, "Well. Heather Holloway is having a Halloween party."

An olive branch.

Nancy had blinked in surprise, and then snatched onto it as tightly as she could.

So that was the first surprise, because Barb hated parties. But it was an offering of a sort and Nancy had said a million times, "You don't have to come!" and Barb came anyway and vanished for like, half the night, and Nancy met Steve Harrington.

And now, Nancy is on a late-night date with Steve Harrington, still flushed from what had happened back at his house, almost feeling like a whole person. Jonathan’s keys are jangling on a chain around her neck, and it’s almost good enough. (He’d always been good enough for her. She thinks maybe it might have been mutual.)

It’s funny, isn’t it? Because it’s an almost-date with Heather Holloway that introduced Nancy to Steve, and now it’s a sort-of-date with Steve when Nancy sees the door of the Holloway’s house standing wide open in the small, dark hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....yeah! yeah. uh adhd bicon nancy rights? i guess? come complain to me on tumblr if you want!! please drop a kudos or a comment if you enjoyed!! you're all lovely and thank you so much for reading (:


	7. dellrise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still. He won’t be able to breathe until he’s home.
> 
> And for the first time in a thousand years, he believes that someday he will breathe again.  
> -  
> or; he would have killed monsters for her. But now he's gone, and she's left with anger and an army to take down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i'm sick and that's about it on that. i'm tired and incoherent but i have a lot of feelings about this story so HA you get an update anyway
> 
> warning they are disgustingly tender. also ft me developing the upside down bc the duffers SLACKED

Nancy sleeps at Steve’s and slinks in through the back door at six in the morning. Her mom is at the stove making eggs. She looks up, their gazes catching. Nancy freezes in place. “Nancy.”

“I’m sorry,” she says immediately. “I should’ve called.” Her mom’s eyes are wet, she realises, and the reminder that oh, everything is still awful, slams into her stomach like a stone. Jonathan’s keys are still around her neck, hidden under her sweater, but it’s still Jonathan’s keys around her neck, not Jonathan’s keys in Jonathan’s hand, and Nancy claps a hand over her mouth to muffle a sudden sob.

“Oh, honey-” Her mom crosses the room in an instant, pulling her in for a hug. Nancy crumples into her shoulder and holds on for dear life. For a moment, she’s just a little kid again, and her mom is everything, and her mom can protect her from anything.

But her mom can’t bring Jonathan back. So.

“I miss him,” she admits in a tiny voice. “I  _ miss _ him.”

Her mom smoothes her hair back gently and kisses her forehead. “You cared about him, didn’t you?” and Nancy wants to snap  _ what, it’s not obvious?  _ until the meaning kicks in. Her mom isn’t just asking if she cared, she’s asking if- Nancy sniffs, clutching the back of her night robe almost desperately.

“I don’t know.”

She doesn’t. Sure, there have been moments of drifting off in class, because when he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and tilts his head at his paper it’s just too damn cute for his own good, and sometimes in the parking lot she would see him next to his car, silhouetted in the morning sun, and her breath would catch, because sometimes seeing Jonathan made time stand still for her. She’d wondered what it would be like, having him take a picture of her, his focus entirely on her, and that kind of wondering always ignited a flare of old, selfish anger in her chest, because she wanted him to look at her. He had never cared about anything in this bullshit tiny town. He only bothered with the things he thought were beautiful. And God, sometimes, more than anything, Nancy  _ aches _ to be beautiful.

She’d wondered a few times, when she scored his attention for a minute, what it would be like if he reached out, if he put his hand over hers or traced a touch on her cheek. Just last Monday, working on their project in class, she’d wanted more than anything for his hand to come up and tuck her hair behind her ear. Just touch her softly. His eyes were always so damn soft. She wanted to know what that gentleness felt like.

She sort of wants to know if it would hurt him to see her kiss Steve in the hallway. In some twisted way, she hopes the answer is yes. She wants to know what it’s like when that softness gets rougher, gets darker, hardens into something else. (She doesn’t really hope that, though. This morning, standing in the barely lightened kitchen, she just wants more than anything to feel his arms around her.)

(She sort of wishes that on Monday, when she sees Steve in the hallway and kisses him before first period, that she could be holding Jonathan’s hand. That the weight of his touch could rest on the small of her back while Steve kissed her nose like he always does when she pulls away too soon. But there’s something shameful in that, so she brushes it aside.)

She can’t tell her mom that, so she says, “Steve is- he’s a good guy.” Her mom hesitates. “You can say it. It’s okay.” She doesn’t know what it is, but her mom is brilliant at finding those tiny details disrupting the flow of something. She’s amazing at cross-stitch. Normally it drives Nancy to Hell, but she’s too tired to be annoyed right now.

Her mom sighs. Pulls back a little to look Nancy in the eyes. “I know he’s a good guy. But is he enough? Without Jonathan is-” she sighs again, and God, she sounds so tired. “Is any of this enough for you?”

_ Without Jonathan. _ Nancy’s eyes sting again.

“Of course not,” she answers before she even has to think. Karen smiles sadly. “God, no. But I think… I think Steve could be enough. Eventually.” She breathes out a long, slow breath. “It’s not… okay,” she says softly. “Without him. But I guess I have forever to get used to it.”

Karen hums. “Do you want Steve to stay forever?”

“I want Steve to be happy,” Nancy says. She sounds more exhausted than intended. “And he’s not. So if it takes forever to help him be happy, then I want forever. He deserves forever.” Jonathan had deserved forever, too, or at least a day; at least a brief moment. She could have given him that, a brief moment. All of those times she’d let slip by, waiting for him to reach out, she could have brushed her pinky against his, or tilted her head just right, so that he knew. She could have trusted him.

She doesn’t know what she’d do if he were here. She doesn’t know if she’d kiss him. She doesn’t know if she’d do anything except stare until her eyes burnt out. She just knows that she’d do anything for him right now.

_ He’d have killed monsters for me, _ her mind supplies suddenly, and her breath hitches.

Her mom kisses her head as gently as glass. “He didn’t want to hurt you,” she murmurs. And that’s true, because he didn’t want to die, or at least he didn’t want to die seven days ago.

“But he did.”

And there’s no way around that. So her mom just holds her until the eggs burn.

-

Later that day, Nancy finally pulls her history project out of her bag.

-

Hopper squats down, squinting at the door. There’s a spray of blood across the red paint. Callaghan whistles behind him. “Must feel like the big city again, huh, Chief?” he asks. “Disappearances, suicides.”

Hopper ignores him. “Where’d you say the parents are?” he asks Powell.

“Neighbor says they’re out of town. Family business.” He shrugs hopelessly. “Didn’t leave a phone number.”

Hopper looks down at the blood again. The rain is back, a light drizzle, like the morning Joyce called him about her son. It’s been a rainy November. He glances up at the thick clouds. Something about them makes him uneasy. “I want search parties. Here to Cartersville.”

_ “Cartersville?” _

“A girl is missing, Powell,” he snaps. “We’re going to Cartersville.”

A raindrop strikes solidly against the blood on the Holloway’s threshold. Something about that looks like faith.

God, he’s crazy.

-

“Sorry about last night.”

Barb shrugs. “It’s okay. I’ve been worse places.” Carol winces, flopping down next to her on the bed. On Barb’s other side, Ellie has yet to wake up, nestled under the yellow covers.

Carol’s room is very bright- Barb’s not sure what color she would have guessed Carol Perkin’s bedroom walls to be, but vibrant, fuschia pink would not have been on the list. The top of the walls have lighter pink streaks, sort of curved, arching all the way around the room, and a delicate eggshell blue peeks through.

“Why’re your walls like that?” she asks. It’s supposed to look like  _ something, _ surely, because the light pink is too distinct to be some kind of mistake.

Carol flushes slightly. “Oh, uh- it’s supposed to be like a rose,” she admits. “See, that’s the top of the petals, and then you can see the sky out through it.” Barb nods slowly. “I came up with it when I was, like, five.”

“It’s cute. I like it.”

“Oh.” Carol bites her lip slightly. She’s smiling. “Thanks.”

They lay there in silence for a little while longer. The house is empty except for them- aside from the brief moment of panic last night, when Carol’s mom had knocked and she automatically shoved Barb and Ellie under her bed, they had been left undisturbed. Both her parents left early for work, apparently. Barb’s dad never left before nine, and her mom didn’t work. She couldn’t imagine having them gone when she woke up.

She wonders if Carol ever gets lonely. “Are you an only child?”

“Hm?” Carol glances over. “Oh, no. My sister is at a friend’s, though. They have sleepovers every weekend.” She wrinkles her nose. “I’m not allowed to have sleepovers. Mom doesn’t believe I have friends that aren’t boys.” She pauses. Pulls a face. “Well, I don’t. But I have people I could invite for sleepovers.”

She says that so nonchalantly that Barb feels kind of bad. “Do you want them to be your friends?”

“God no.” Carol wrinkles her nose. “Being Vickie’s main bitch. Can you imagine?” Barb laughs a little. Carol smiles again. “It’s kind of funny, isn’t it?” Barb hums for her to continue. Not that Carol ever really asks permission to talk. (It’s nice. Nancy doesn’t like to ramble. It embarasses her.) Carol is so unabashed that Barb can’t help but roll towards her, tugged in by the gravity she generates for herself. “Like, in the movies, everyone’s always got so many friends. High school is so damn social. But in real life, I mean, who has more than three or four, right? God, I don’t even have that. And Tommy doesn’t really count as a friend, I guess.” She frowns. “So really it’s just Stevie. Not that I don’t love Steve, but-”

“But it’s kind of lonely,” Barb finishes for her. “Yeah.” Carol rolls towards her, the two of them curled towards each other on the yellow bedspread like a pair of parentheses. There’s a wistful kind of look in Carol’s eyes.

“Sometimes, I wish…” she sighs. Barb reaches up to tuck a stray strand of hair out of Carol’s eyes. It lingers there, fingers slipping gently in the curls. “I wish Tommy was just a friend. Or not… just a friend. But I wish we were  _ friends.” _

“I don’t get it.”

Carol’s lips twist slightly as she picks her words. “Tom is… he’s complicated,” she finally says. Barb’s hand is still in her hair. “He feels out of place, I think. His dad- well.” Her brows draw together. “They’re not like us.” Barb shivers slightly at the tone of her voice. “I think he knows that, you know? That he’s not like me. And I think it pulls him away. He… he cares, he just… he doesn’t… God, don’t make fun of me.” Carol closes her eyes tightly and forces the next part out, like it’s painful to say. “It’s like, you know. I’m his girlfriend. But he will never feel closer to me than he does right now.” Her lips tighten. “He will never want me more than he does right now. And he will never... love me.”

Barb doesn’t know what to say to that. Instead, she just slides her hand through Carol’s hair. She ends up with an armful of pretty teen queen nestled against her chest, but that’s okay. That’s okay. Just as long as Carol feels safe. She’s not sure why that’s so important to her. It’s something about the bright room, about the morning light on the walls, about the kid curled up at her back; this is the safest they’ve ever been. She needs Carol to know that.

“Well,” she says softly, before she’s really thought it through, “Maybe he’ll realise he belongs with you someday. And maybe, you know, it doesn’t have to just be him. Maybe someone else can love you, too.”

Carol’s giggle is slight, but it’s there, and Barb’s face is slightly flushed. She hadn’t really meant- okay, no, she had. She totally had. Carol tilts her head up. She’s small, even laying together like this, and her nose brushes against Barb’s chin from how close they are. Barb braves pressing a small kiss to it. Carol goes cross-eyed for a moment, but she’s smiling. “Maybe I can love someone else back,” she says.

Barb can feel the blush lingering, high on her cheeks. “And I can be your friend.” The answering grin isn’t as blinding as she knows it can be, but it still sends a rushing warmth through her veins. God, but it’s so safe right here.

Carol pulls away after another minute and swings her legs off the side of the bed. She glances back down with a smile. It’s smaller. More intimate. A little bit of sunshine just for the two of them. “I’m going to shower,” she says. Barb nods, watching her leave. Carol has her own bathroom- like, literally her own, right off her bedroom, which really hammers home exactly whose house she’s in. Barb’s parents could  _ never _ afford a house with two full master suites. Only one of Barb’s parents works, though, so that probably contributes.

Carol’s shower isn’t long, just a few minutes, and she comes stumbling out looking panicked. Barb instantly shoots up off the bed, trying not to jostle Ellie. “Hey, hey-” she crosses the room with careful steps. “Hey, what’s wrong?” Carol is shaking. She grabs onto Barb’s hand, tugging her with her into the closet. There’s enough room for them to stand apart, but Carol stays right up against her. She’s wrapped in a towel, all her hair and skin still drenched, and it’s soaking Barb’s shirt, but that’s ok. Carol looks up at her with fearful eyes. “Hey. Hey.” Barb breathes in and out steadily, trying to get Carol to mimic the pattern. After a few minutes, it works, the two of them standing there, breathing in a quiet tandem. “That’s it. There you go.”

Carol shudders. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I just… I can’t stop seeing it. It’s- God, Barb, it doesn’t have a  _ face.” _

Carol had talked about the monster last night, explained everything, explained that she’d  _ seen Jonathan, _ but she’d seen perfectly composed then. Now, though- now it sinks in the Barb’s bones. Carol had seen a monster in a goddamn tree. Who’s to say that the next tree won’t be her shower wall?

And Carol had seen Jonathan. But she’d seen him in a tree, bleeding and stalked by a goddamn _ monster,  _ so who’s to say it matters? Who’s to say they’ll ever see him again?

Barb holds Carol tightly and lets her shirt get soaked through. She’s starting to understand why Nancy aches to solve mysteries.

-

It’s not sunlight, exactly, that’s lancing through the forest. But after what feels like a thousand years of the dark, the damp, and the dismal, there’s a soft light blossoming over everything. It’s emanating from somewhere he can’t see, echoing gently around him, around everything. The trees have turned to white glass. The ground beneath his feet has shifted from black to gold; even the water, oily and foreboding as it had been, was a brilliant crimson, shimmering lightly. Up in the trees, something moves. A shower of rough, charcoal colored feathers comes down, and then it’s hopping along the branch, a downy golden thing that stares at him with glittering eyes. Curious, not malicious. It’s not a bird, exactly- its wings are folded up on its back, not its sides, and it has little antlers that shimmer in the light- but it’s small and he can’t help but smile. He hasn’t smiled since Ellie left. He doesn’t know how long that’s been.

Maybe this is why, he thinks distantly. Maybe the reason it’s so hard to tell time is that time isn’t the same.

“Were you asleep?” he asks the not-bird. It shifts, it’s head cocking as it stares down at him. It blinks. “Good morning.”

The monster is gone for now. It had slunk away sometime ago, in the middle of a slow, silent chase. It had sunk down into the hollow of a tree, folding itself up in a disturbing way that no anatomy similar to a human should allow. It’s beautiful.

He finds himself thinking wryly of Nancy. She won’t understand the note. He hadn’t had much time once he saw the monster in his back seat, but the skidding had jarred it, and he’d scrawled it as quickly as he could. He assumed he’d be ripped apart right there. He wanted her to know he wanted to call.

He hadn’t, though, so she probably won’t understand. Right now, though, as the not-bird hops once and then tumbles away through the air, moving with a dipping, spinning flight, it’s more apt than he’d even intended. He’d thought it was an allusion. He hadn’t meant to tell the truth.

He can hear his own voice in his head.  _ Trees of white glass, all around you. You can see your reflection in them. It’s hazy enough that the light looks like a halo. The ground is golden, but softer than sand. It glows. God, it glows. You know you’re somewhere holy. _

“You’re in Dellrise Forest,” he murmurs along with the memory. “Even breathing is easier here.”

Still. He won’t be able to breathe until he’s home.

And for the first time in a thousand years, he believes that someday he will breathe again.

-

The case is closed.

The finality of it pangs at Nancy’s heart, but more than anything, it shatters the tempered glass she’s been using to hold back her anger, and she is flooded with a rage so pure that she thinks she might burst into flame. Hell hath no fire like this- grief and despair and an aching want as tinder, flaring up until the sun pales. The case is closed as a suicide, and there’s a copy of Jonathan’s keys hanging just inside the Byers’s door. She sits with Will on the couch while Steve makes dinner, holding him against her side, and pretends like they’re waiting. She pretends that Joyce is just tired. She pretends that it’s been a long day, and that’s why everything is so painfully silent. Jonathan’s just at work. They’re waiting for him to get home.

Except Jonathan doesn’t have work anymore. Jonathan doesn’t have  _ anything  _ anymore, because he was at the bottom of a cliff for five days and there’s a copy of his keys hanging by the door.

They eat in the living room. She and Will share the plate balanced on her lap, because he can’t eat more than a few bites anyway. Nancy does the dishes while Steve straightens up the couch. It’s gearing up to be a cold night. He kisses her cheek before he heads out the back door. She checks the fridge and makes a grocery list (Steve and Will had gone out earlier, but only to get dinner, and there wasn’t much left) before he gets back in with some wood for the heater. It doesn’t get as hot as electric heating, but Joyce had told them yesterday that the central had failed years ago, and it’ll be much safer than a fire overnight. She’s not sure Will or Joyce cares anymore if their house burns down, but that’s okay. Nancy and Steve can care for them.

She’s surprised her anger isn’t heating the whole house up anyway.

Joyce holds Will in her arms for a long time, both of them breathing in tandem together, before she goes to bed. Nancy checks through the door after a few minutes- she hadn’t showered, but she’d changed into her pajamas this time, at least. Last night she’d passed out in her jeans.

Will watches Steve turn on the heater. “You know,” she hears him say, “I don’t think he ever knew how to work that thing.” Nancy looks up from her list, peering inconspicuously around the doorframe into the living room. Steve settles onto the couch next to Will.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Will swallows hard, his hands twitching in his lap. “He hated it. Said it was ugly.” Steve smiles slightly. “When it was too cold, I would always ask him to turn it on, and he’d just give me another blanket instead. It took me a long time to realise it was his.” Nancy can feel herself smile, too. That’s Jonathan, alright. “He-” Will takes a shaky breath. He’s trying not to cry, but he looks something almost happy. Something almost fond. “He cared. A lot.”

Steve hesitantly placed his arm around the kid’s shoulders. It’s a gentle touch, but it’s fiercely protective, and Nancy’s heart melts just a little. “Yeah, he did. He loved you.” Will leans into Steve’s side. Nancy leaves her list on the table and joins them, tucking Will’s head under her chin. The heater crackles in the corner, lighting up the room.

For one minute, huddled together on the couch, Nancy’s rage dims. For one minute, it’s just her and Steve and a kid who needs them, and rain is tapping against the windows, and it feels… bittersweet. It rained when Jonathan disappeared, and it’s raining again now that he’s died for a second time. For a minute, they dance on the end of the line. For a minute, they’re the broken pieces Jonathan left behind, beginning to pull themselves together. Pulling the puzzle back into a different, smaller picture.

But underneath her sweater, the keys dig into Nancy’s skin, and the anger comes rushing back. She holds Will tighter. This isn’t the end of the line. It’s the end of the case, but it’s not the end of Jonathan Byers, and isn’t the end of the rain.

_ I’d kill monsters for you, _ she thinks. The memory is fonder this time.

She tucks Will into bed. He makes a face and says, “I’m  _ twelve, _ Nancy,” but he doesn’t try to stop her from kissing his forehead and switching his light off for him. Steve is waiting for her on the couch when she gets back. Something in her chest stirs at that.

She curls into his side and gives him one those soft kisses that makes him turn pink. “Will your parents miss you?”

“No.” His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “They’re out of town. Your mom?” He doesn’t ask about Ted, she notices wryly, which should probably sting more than it actually does.

“She stopped by while you and Will were at the store. I told her I’d be out tonight.” Steve hums, his cheek leaning on top of her head. One hand snakes up, pulling the chain out of her sweater. They stare down together at the keys in his palm. Steve swallows hard. “I wanna kill them,” she says. “Whoever did this. I want to kill them.” Steve kisses her temple and murmurs something against her skin that she can’t quite make out. The copied keys glint by the door.

She’d kill monsters for him, too.

“I’m going to make tea,” Nancy says abruptly, the anger cresting in her chest, pressing up against the inside of her ribs. She can’t sit still right now. “You want some?”

The couch is vacated when she returns with two mugs in hand. She frowns, looking around. Down the hallway, a door is cracked open, light spilling out across the floor.

It feels like trespassing to step across the threshold. Nancy’s never been in here before. Steve is kneeling on the floor, examining the music collection. She sets the mugs down on the nightstand and sits down hesitantly on the bed. The blankets are messy. No one’s made it in seven days. “Tommy was right,” Steve says. He taps a record. “He did listen to The Kinks.” He’s smiling, she thinks.

“Should we be in here?” she asks.

Steve runs his fingers over the titles. It’s a gentle touch. Reverent. “Ms Byers said we could sleep in here if we wanted.”

“Do you want to?”

He glances over his shoulder. “Would you prefer the couch again?” They’d stayed over a few days ago by accident, curled up together, and while Nancy had enjoyed being wrapped up in Steve’s arms all night, she hadn’t enjoyed the stiffness in her joints nearly as much. She swallows hard, pulling her knees up to her chest.

“Do you think they’d mind if we borrowed something to sleep in?”

“I don’t know. Probably not. We can just change before they wake up, anyway.” Nancy hums in agreement.

Neither of them moves for a few minutes. There’s something fragile in the room here. Nancy thinks she would have liked being in this room with Jonathan. She thinks Steve would have liked it too. It’s not shameful to imagine the three of them hanging out here, is it? There’s nothing indecent in that. Just the three of them.

The three of them never did anything before. Now, though, Nancy would die for just a few minutes. Maybe that’s selfish. But is it really so bad if she doesn’t want all of their attention to herself? Steve melts so easily when she’s gentle with him. She wants to know how he’d look with all of the softness in Jonathan’s eyes focused on him. There’s nothing wrong with that. Wanting to see her boyfriend happy is normal. Healthy, even.

Steve sighs, standing up. “It’s late.” It still feels weird, but Nancy is so tired she aches with it, so she shoves the discomfort aside.

She doesn’t bother asking for privacy when she changes. It’s nothing he hadn’t seen at his house last night anyway. He doesn’t stare, but she can tell he’s trying hard not to, and almost laughs. She finds a pair of sweatpants and hands them to him. They probably wouldn’t fit her. She pulls on one of his t-shirts that’s long enough that she doesn’t feel indecent. It must have been big on Jonathan too, she reflects. It’s not like he was exactly big and brawny. She leaves the chain around her neck.

The look on Steve’s face when she glances at him makes her heart skip a beat. His eyes are so soft and adoring that Nancy can’t help but smile slightly back at him. “You look good,” he whispers. She ducks her head, feeling suddenly shy. When she peeks back up through her lashes, he still looks starstruck. An almost giddy feeling rises up through her. She wiggles her toes happily.

Nancy and Steve curl up together in Jonathan’s bed and sip at their tea, leaning on each other. “Do you think…” Steve pauses. She shifts, looking up at him. He looks almost nervous. “Do you think I should be jealous?”

She eyes the way Jonathan’s t-shirt looks on Steve, the way it fits almost perfectly. “Do you think I should be?”

Steve stiffens slightly, but she doesn’t let herself flinch. If Steve gets to say it, so does she. “Nance…”

“It’s okay.” She kisses his shoulder. “You know I care about you, right?” The tension in Steve’s face melts away immediately. She presses her nose into his neck, sighing. “I don’t know what I would do if he was back,” she admits. “But I’d want him back with us.”

“Us,” Steve repeats. He swallows hard. “I’d want him back with us too.”

The rain is falling gently outside. Their empty mugs sit on Jonathan’s nightstand as Nancy shuts off the lamp and lays on Steve’s chest. It’s not uncomfortable anymore. It’s just lonely. Even with Steve next to her, even being held like she’s treasure, it’s just undeniably empty. It shouldn’t be just the two of them in Jonathan’s room. She wants the three of them.

“You know,” she finally says. “When the kids were first getting into Dungeons and Dragons, they always made Jonathan be the DM.”

Will had explained the game to Steve on the way home from school Wednesday, and he only sounded a little confused when he laughed. “I can’t imagine that.”

Nancy smiled into his shirt. Jonathan’s shirt. “Me either, anymore. But he was good at it. The boys were only, like, nine. Jon was a lot louder back then.” It’s not exactly the right word, but she thinks Steve understands what she means. “He shut off when his dad left.”

“Why?” She rolls her head up to look at him. He’s frowning. “I mean, his dad, he was an asshole, everyone knows that. But shouldn’t… I don’t know, shouldn’t it have been better without him?”

Nancy has to think about it. “Well, I think it probably was. But once his dad was gone, I mean… that’s a lot of responsibility for a thirteen year old. It was hard on him.” She misses twelve year old Jonathan sometimes. She misses fifteen year old Jonathan too, but he used to smile so easily. He used to smile every time he saw her. She misses that. “But anyway, there was this campaign, one time. I used to sit in with them, to listen, you know. Mike never let me play, because he’s a brat, but he liked when I sat and watched.” Mike has always been so proud of his little nerd game. Once upon a time, it had been adorable. She’s not sure when it became annoying instead. “I don’t remember what the story was, but they ended up in, uh-” she swallows hard. “They ended up in Dellrise Forest. And the way Jonathan talked about it, it sounded so beautiful.” A holy forest full of white glass trees. “It got all scary, though. After the sun went down.” Rough black bark and empty shadows and monsters crawling up from the ground. “Dustin’s character got hurt real bad. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it, about the way he’d talked about the daytime.” Golden ground softer than sand and halos in the trees. “After the kids fell asleep, we were watching something on TV, and I told him that I wanted to go there. To Dellrise.” She can feel Steve’s smile against her forehead. “I asked if we could go once all the monsters were gone. Kind of a joke, you know. And he said-” her voice cracks dangerously. “He said he’d kill the monsters for me.”

Steve is silent. Nancy presses her lips together, trying not to cry. Dellrise always hurts a little bit, but  _ God, _ it’s so dark and lonely and she misses him so goddamn bad. It  _ stings. _

Steve’s hand comes up to the keys on her chest. He rubs at them gently with his thumb. “Well,” he says. His voice is thick. “I think he deserves that we kill the monsters for him, too.” There is nothing more intimate, Nancy decides, than seeing her own anger echoed back in Steve’s eyes. “No matter  _ what,” _ he adds.

Nancy kisses Steve’s jaw and pulls Jonathan’s blanket further up around them. “No matter what,” she agrees.

And that’s a fucking promise.

-

The next day, Hopper gives her the note.

Nancy is going to lose her goddamn mind.

-

Barb’s parents are going to worry. Carol doesn’t give a shit. They’re making breakfast together, Carol mixing up pancake batter while Barb makes bacon, and Claire is sitting with Ellie at the table. They’re staring at each other with some kind of confusion, but they don’t seem openly hostile, so Carol has stayed out of it. Claire’s just territorial. She’ll come around.

“It’s Monday,” Claire finally says.

Carol glances over her shoulder at her. “Uh huh. You should probably get ready for school.” Claire sighs heavily, slumping down further in her chair. “It’s, like, almost Thanksgiving, shut up.”

“Ellie doesn’t have to go to school.”

“I’m from Wyoming,” Ellie says. Claire sighs again and peels herself up off the chair, trudging for the stairs. The shower switches on soon enough. Carol glances up at the ceiling, a sudden fear running through her veins.

Barb finishes putting the bacon on a plate and touches Carol’s arm gently. “She’ll be okay,” she murmurs. Carol can feel her shoulders melt. She nods, choosing to think about how unfairly tall Barb is instead of faceless monsters looming out of the shower wall. She had to tilt her head almost all the way up to look at her. She’s in the middle of debating whether Barb is actually taller than Tommy or if it just feels that way when there’s a knock at the door. She leans up on her toes, peering out the window. “Oh!”

Ellie tilts her head. “Friend?”

“Yeah! Yeah, it’s Tommy. I’ll go-”

There’s the creak of the front door swinging open. Carol blinks.

“Carrie?” Tommy says, and then, “Carol?” a little louder. He sounds confused. Ellie wipes blood out from under her nose.

Carol and Barb glance at each other. “We’re in here!”

“Who’s w- Barbara?”

Barb waves awkwardly. Tommy waves back. Carol glances between the two of them, somewhat nervous. “We were making pancakes,” she offers, feeling like a treatymaker. Barb snorts.

“You couldn’t even get the batter to mix up right.”

Tommy snorts. “Carrie can cook, but anything to do with batter, she’s done for,” he imparts, as if it’s great wisdom. Barb gives a tiny laugh. Her shoulders have relaxed slightly. Carol scowls. “Who’s this?” Tommy asks, catching sight of Ellie. She waves, too. Carol gasps slightly before she can help it. Ellie’s never waved before! She’s learning! Ellie hears the gasp and straightens, looking proud of herself.

“Ellie,” Barb says. “She’s uh…”

“I’m from Wyoming.”

“Yeah. Wyoming.”

Tommy blinks. “Okay. Hi, Ellie from Wyoming.” They exchange slightly timid smiles before he surveys the mess of the kitchen again. “Is Claire taking the bus?” At Carol’s nod, he holds up his keys, jangling them in the air. “Come on, then. Let’s get pancakes somewhere better.” Carol hesitates, glancing over at Barb. Tommy rolls his eyes. It’s amused, though. “Barbara is invited, too. And Ellie, if… you know, if Ellie wants.” He covers it up admirably, but the stumble makes the other three grin slightly. No one corrects him.

“It’s Monday,” Barb says, sounding cautious. Carol pouts. “Okay,  _ fine.” _

Carol beams, bouncing on her toes. “Okay! Ellie, you wanna come with us? You’ll love it. They put, like, a mountain of whipped cream. Have you ever had whipped cream?” Ellie shook her head slowly. “Oh, you’re gonna  _ love _ it.” Tommy glances between them, looking bewildered.

Barb clears her throat. “They don’t have whipped cream in Wyoming.”

“...Right.”

The front door clicks open again. Ellie wants to go, evidently. That mischievous spark is back in her eyes. “Pancakes,” she says. Tommy’s slightly baffled smile softens. He’s always liked kids. It’s one of those bittersweet things about him that makes Carol’s heart pang. She likes kids, too. She sort of wishes that someday they could like kids together. But right now, he and Ellie are smiling at each other, and Barb is leaning against the counter with something like contentment, and Carol can’t summon up anything sour. It’s so safe in the big white kitchen she usually hates. She can’t be anything but earnest right now.

So, earnestly, she grabs Barb’s hand and kisses Tommy’s cheek, beaming from ear to ear and earnestly, she sets aside trees and monsters for this unfamiliar, unabashed happiness that’s flooding her like fire. For a minute, it’s a wonder to her that the glow doesn’t warm up the whole state. For a minute, she lets herself forget how all this started.

That’s her first mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you enjoyed it!! okay now i'm gonna go sleep for thirteen hours (kidding i can't get more than like three hours at once *finger guns*
> 
> nothing in life matters!! but everytime someone comments i get an immediate shot of serotonin to my brain with the strength of like, heroin, so.... pretty please?
> 
> ok thansk for reading i love each and every one of you


	8. ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This is the worst idea in the world,” she whispers to herself. Just to make sure she’s clear on that.  
> -  
> or; there are monsters in Dellrise. But there are monsters in Hawkins, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not dead!! so that's good or whatever

“There was blood on the door.”

He doesn’t know quite how he ended up back here. He doesn’t know why he’s crumbling so quickly this time. Karen is with him- she has been for most of the past few days. (Mike is barely speaking to anyone but Nancy. Nancy is barely speaking to anyone but Steve. Ted has never spoken more than barely to any of them at all.) She rubs his back softly. “Blood,” she repeats. “And you can’t reach her parents.”

“God, I-” Hopper takes a deep breath, burying his face in his hands. “I don’t know what to do,” he mumbles. “I mean… Heather Holloway? That’s- it doesn’t-”

Joyce sinks down on his other side, squeezing his knee. “It’ll be okay,” she says. Her voice is still shaking, her hands still fragile, but her face is set. Determined. “We’re going to find her, Hop. Just… just have a little faith, okay?” She squeezes again. She’s steadying both of them, he thinks. All three of them, really.

Karen lets out a short sigh. “You went to Cartersville, you said?” she asks. Her tone is brisk. Decisive. Already moving on to the next plan, the next move, already pulling all her thoughts back to their new path and searching for the next step. Hopper doesn’t know what he’d do without her.

“Yeah. Not a trace.”

There’s a creak of floorboards from the hallway. They all twist instinctively, locking gazes with Nancy Wheeler, of all goddamned people. She’s standing in the hallway, wearing flannel pants and a Clash t-shirt that’s too big and- oh. She’s wearing Jonathan’s clothes. Hopper has to swallow hard past the lump in his throat.

“Mom?”

Karen stands abruptly. “Oh, Nance-” She pulls her into a hug. “Hey, honey. Sorry if we woke you.”

“No, it’s okay. Steve was talking in his sleep, anyway.”

Hopper gives Joyce a look. She rolls her eyes back at him. “It’s Jonathan’s room,” she murmurs. “They’re not going to do anything indecent.” Which. Okay, yes, that seems fair. But still.

Karen lets go. “I didn’t see you today. How was school?”

Nancy shrugs. Her arms are still halfway around her mom, like she’s afraid to let go. “It was alright, I guess. Boring. My project is due soon.” Her nose wrinkles as she says that. Karen pulls her in again automatically. “It’ll be okay. Ms Byers, is it okay if I make some tea?”

Joyce gives her a warm smile. “Of course, honey. Is-” she hesitates. “Is the bed big enough? We might be able to work something out tomorrow. Move that bed to my room or something.”

“No, it’s okay.” Nancy’s smile was a little more genuine. “We fit. I’ve been told I’m under average size.”

“Fun size,” Karen adds, kissing her head. “Alright. Well, come home after you drop Will home tomorrow, please? Mike misses you.” Nancy nods.

It’s once she’s gone that Joyce threads her fingers into Hopper’s. “See?” At his blank look, she gives a tiny smile. “Have a little  _ faith,  _ Jim,” she says again. “We can’t change the past. We just need to keep working towards the future.” Her voice is wavering, but she’s strong. God, she’s strong. Hopper’s never met someone as strong as Joyce Byers. “One step at a time.”

“One step at a time,” he repeats. “Okay.” He can do that.

Karen settles next to him again. “So,” she says, folding her hands together. “Remember Dennis Burgess?”

Hopper gets the feeling he won’t like where this is going.

-

Honestly, Tommy had expected it to be terribly awkward. Barbara didn’t like him, after all- and why should she? He’d never outright antagonised her, but there were years of mocking retorts and rolled eyes and mutual disdain stretching like a chasm between them, and the echo of his own words went tumbling down the old rocky walls. He expects frosty glances and brittle, bitter conversation. Instead, Carol turns on the Top Hits radio, he and Barbara groan out loud at the same time, and a surprised smile crosses her face. Carol grins at him.

God, she’s sunlight.

Ellie is in the backseat, fiddling with the buttons on the car door. Tommy tries not to stare at- them? Them. That seems… neutral enough. (He doesn’t want to  _ ask.  _ Nobody had corrected him back at the house, so he’s a little lost, okay?) “You can roll your window down, if you want.”

They startle, looking up at him. “Oh.” There’s a pause, and then a decisive nod. Barbara leans across the seat and rolls the window down, and then does the same to hers. The chill November air whips sharply across Tommy’s arms. Carol notices him shiver and frowns.

“Where’s your jacket?”

He glances over at her and then focuses back on the road. “Huh? Oh. I, uh- I forgot it.” His mom’s jacket had ripped last night and she’d needed something to wear on her way into work. Carol wouldn’t really get that, though. Besides, she’d only worry, and it wasn’t her problem what Tommy’s mom had messed up. Carol narrows her eyes at him, but doesn’t say anything else about it. At least the wind rips the sound of Madonna out of the car.

Ellie is leaning out the window, eyes wide in some kind of awe. Tommy can’t help but smile at the sight; they’re so obviously  _ happy,  _ just from this. He can’t remember the last time something like sticking his head out the car window made him happy. It used to, right? Back when he was little, he and Steve would do all sorts of dumb shit to make themselves happy. They’d throw mud at each other or scrounge all their money together to buy a whole cake just for themselves from the store or they’d lay out on the Harrington’s porch at night talking about aliens. Dumb things. Dumb things used to make him happy all the time.  _ Steve  _ used to make him happy. Now all he’s got is nights where he’s too high or hammered to be sad, but that’s not really the same.

But Ellie sticks their head out the window of the car and grins like God is in the wind. So Tommy smiles too, because how couldn’t he be happy right now?

“Hey, Carrie?” he says. She hums, looking over at him. “I missed you.”

Another smile lights up her face and she squeezes his hand on the shift. “I missed you too.” She doesn’t mean it the same way he does, doesn’t have a different three words hiding behind the noise, but that’s okay. Tommy can love her anyway.

She’s smiling. That’s enough to make him happy right now.

They pull into the pancake house right when the second period would be starting. Tommy should be in history. “Fuck history,” he says, slamming the car door. “It’s whipped cream season, baby.”

“That’s winter,” Barbara says. “Hot cocoa and stuff. There’s nothing about whipped cream in autumn.”

“Uh? Pumpkin pie?”

“Every season is whipped cream season, and you’re both idiots,” Carol interrupts. She has her arms crossed over her chest, practically drowning in her big, patchwork jacket, and Tommy almost melts at how cute she is. Love will keep him warm, or whatever. Metaphorically speaking. He’s still shivering. Carol notices and loops her scarf around his neck, keeping a hold on it.

Tommy stumbles after her as she pulls them towards the restaurant. Barbara follows, looking amused, one of her hands linked with Ellie’s. “Hey!”

Carol doesn’t even glance back. “You keep trying to wander off when I take you places.”

“Is this about Aldi’s again?” Carol just yanks on the scarf in response. Tommy almost trips through the door. “If I fall, I’m landing on you.”

“You already fell for her once, so what’s new?”

“I fall for her every time I see her, that’s not-” Tommy stops. He can feel himself flushing. “I mean. Shut up.” Carol makes a delighted noise and tugs on the scarf again. This time it’s reeling him in for a kiss, though, so it’s much more welcome.

Barbara and Ellie exchange disgusted looks, sliding into a booth. Tommy sticks his tongue out. Barbara doesn’t hesitate to return it.

“Idiot,” Ellie says.

Tommy doesn’t have an argument for that, so he just shrugs and says, “An idiot who’s buying you whipped cream, Kid Wonder.” Ellie’s face splits into a grin. Tommy grins back. When he glances away, Carol is watching them, her face soft. He leans over to kiss her temple.

“What happened at Aldi’s?” Barbara asks, flipping open the menu. Tommy groans. Carol claps twice, her eyes lighting up.

“Oh my God,  _ so-” _ she sets off rambling about their trip- she’d gone to replace the lamp in her bedroom, Tommy had come along and wandered off because he saw tiki lamps an aisle over and wanted to look at them, and three hours later she found him sulking in the back corner, eating a box of stolen Pop-Tarts- but Tommy can’t focus on her words, because she’s lit up so brilliantly that he can’t do anything but stare. Barbara is flicking her gaze between the menu and Carol’s face, an obvious entrancement in her eyes.

He should be jealous, right? The way Barbara’s face is lightening, like just hearing Carol talk is taking a load off her shoulders, and the way Carol is leaning forward, like she’s being tugged across the table, and the way their eyes are fixed on each other, bright and sharp and enamored. He should be jealous. But Carol’s hand is in his underneath the table, and he can’t summon up anything but a flood of relief that he’s alive for this moment.

He doesn’t mind. He gets what Steve was saying, he thinks.

He’s so caught up in Carol’s hands flying everywhere that he barely notices the blonde woman at the counter; barely, but he does. Unconsciously, he takes stock. Far too professionally dressed for a pancake house at 9 in the morning. Angled away from them, but in just the right way to be watching them in the reflection of the mirror on the wall. Hair curled, but frizzing. Red lipstick. Coffee from a different restaurant cupped between her hands.

Social security worker, maybe. Maybe. But Tommy doesn’t trust women with sharp pressed suits and red lipstick.

He shifts his attention back across the table. “You know what you want, Barbara?”

“Hm?” She looks startled, the question pulling her eyes away from Carol. Tommy tries for a smile. The warmth in her eyes still dims, but it doesn’t fully dissipate this time. He can live with that.

Carol smacks his shoulder. “Well, why are you asking? I’m paying.”

“No, you’re not,” Tommy and Barbara say in unison.

“I’m not,” Ellie adds, just in case anyone was wondering. Tommy gives them a high five.

Carol gives both of them a look. It’s the look she gives Tommy whenever he’s being a moron, so he’s used to it, but he sees the way Barbara’s smile widens, and he’s not sure how to feel about that. “I’m paying,” she insists. “Barb, what do you want?” Her charming little smile is back. Barbara melts again.

“I-”

“No, tell me, Barbie doll,” Tommy interrupts.  _ “I’m  _ paying. I have to prove I’m worthy of the lady somehow.”

Barbara’s head ducks to hide the way she grins, and he gets an absurd shot of satisfaction from it. “God knows you don’t do it otherwise,” she shoots back. Tommy can’t even be offended, not when she’s giving him a teasing look like that.

“Well,” Carol says, and that’s all she says, and it takes Barbara and Tommy a few seconds to understand what she’s implying.

“Carol!”

Her mouth drops open. “Wha- you make jokes like that all the time!” Barbara looks disappointed in both of them. Her smile hasn’t died, though.

Tommy splutters over his words. “I- you- we have a child now! You can’t say that!” Ellie blinks. Carol pauses, clearly contemplating his point.

“Uh, I think Ellie’s actually Carol and  _ I’s  _ child,” Barbara combats.

Tommy waves her off. “We can all be parents, it’s fine. Ellie, we can all be your parents, right?”

Ellie tilts their head, thinking. “Parents,” she repeats slowly, and then nods. “Yeah.” She points to Barbara. “Favorite mama.”

Carol looks offended.

-

In the morning, Hopper meets Nancy in the kitchen. “You knew him.”

“Somewhat,” she replies, then pauses. “Well, yes. I did.” Not well enough for him to take pictures of her, but well enough to sit on his counter at 8 in the morning sipping coffee from a chipped mug, wearing a shirt she’d seen on him a thousand times.

Hopper fumbles in his pocket. Holds out a piece of paper. “This was in the car.”

Nancy sets her coffee down beside her and unfolds it.  _ “Oh,”  _ she breathes. Her finger traces at the bloodstain. “Oh, Jonathan…” her voice gets caught up on it. “I… can I have this?” she asks. “If the case is closed?”

He hesitates.

“Please?” Her voice is faint enough to be an echo. “He wrote this for me.”  _ He’d kill the monsters for me. _

“Fine.” He grabs a cup of coffee himself and gives her a gruff nod as he heads for the door. “Keep your head on straight, kid, okay?” Nancy smiles at his retreating back, folding the note back up.

Dellrise.

God, what she wouldn’t give to find him there.

-

Yeah, life is shit, but getting shaken awake by Nancy Wheeler is something Steve wouldn’t give up for the world.

“Steve. Steve, we need to go to school,” she’s saying. Her voice is smooth, sweet, just slightly amused; God, he could lay here and listen to her talk forever. He wonders if she’d be okay laying here with him forever. “Steve, come on.”

He sighs, cracking one eye open.  _ “You  _ need to go to school.”

“No, we both need to go.” She’s trying to sound stern, but not totally working through her smile. Steve’s chest swirls with warmth. “Do you want Tommy to get worried again?” Steve frowns, thinking. “No. You don’t.”

“I could call him,” Steve suggests, then winces. “No, nevermind.” Nancy’s eyes are half concerned, half curious, but Steve pushes himself up off the bed without replying. “Mm. Okay, fine. School.” He stretches, yawning, but finds his arms settling around a pair of lithe little shoulders as they come down. “Oh, hello.”

She nuzzles her nose into his collarbone. “Hello.”

“You’re beautiful, Nancy Wheeler.”

She kisses his jaw. “You’re an idiot, Steve Harrington. Now shut up and hold me,” she demands.

So he does.

He’s not very good at shutting up, though, so it doesn’t last very long. “You’re in a good mood.” He kisses her head. Nancy looks up at him with those pretty, wide eyes, and his heart skips a beat. “Something happen?”

She pauses. “I don’t know. But I just…” she shakes her head. “I guess I’m just happy.” And that’s obviously bullshit, because Nancy hasn’t just been happy in days, but Steve doesn’t say anything about it. Either way, she’s happy. That’s good enough for him. “Hey, Steve?”

“Yeah?”

She’s hiding in his shoulder again. “How hard do you think it is to fall in love?”

Steve blinks. “Uh,” he says dumbly. He hadn’t been prepared for a question like that. “Well, I-” he’s blushing, he thinks. “I don’t know,” he finally manages. “I guess it’s different for everyone, right?”

Nancy is quiet for a second. “Okay.” She nuzzles closer to him. “Hm. I hate school. Maybe we don’t need to go.” Steve knows she’ll take that back in a minute, but for now he just laughs, scooping her up in his arms and falling back onto the bed. “You’re  _ precious, _ Nancy Wheeler,” he tells her. She curls up in his arms, grinning against his shirt. Jonathan’s shirt.

“And you’re fucking gorgeous,” she answers softly. Then, very quietly, like she expects him not to hear it, she adds, “So was he.”

Steve’s grin dims, but the warmth in his chest doesn’t. “You’re right,” he breathes against her ear. Nancy blinks up at him. Steve shrugs. “Hey, you said it.”

“Well, I- well. Yes. I did.”

He kisses her forehead, ignoring the nervous thrumming of his heart in his chest. “Can’t I agree?”

Nancy has a little smile on her face again when he pulls back. “Of course you can.”

“Good.” He kisses her forehead again. She won’t give him a real kiss when he hasn’t brushed his teeth, but he’ll just make up for the missed opportunity later. “I have a lot of agreements to make.” She raises an eyebrow. “Shh, I’m tired.”

Nancy kisses his collarbone. “You can sleep in the first period. You need to drive me, though.”

“Can’t you drive yourself?”

“You want me to drive?”

He wakes up a little more at just the  _ memory  _ of Nancy behind a wheel. “Nevermind, I can do it.” She rolls her eyes, but she’s still smiling. “Thank you,” he says, suddenly, because the warmth in his chest is too intense. “I- my parents aren’t- I mean, I assume you figured it out by now, but they don’t really like to be around, and I just-” he breathed in. Breathed out. “I… I hate everything that’s happened. And if I could go back in time, I’d do it. In a heartbeat, I’d do it. But you… having you, having this-” he gestures vaguely at the house around them. “I’ve never had anything like this. Thank you for… waking up with me, I guess.”

The silence is less awkward than he expected. Nancy is staring at him, lips parted slightly, eyes flickering over his face like she’s trying to see everything. He wants her to see everything. If he could take off everything about himself and give her the part that makes her happy, he’d do it. He wishes he could take off his flaws for her. Somehow, it’s better that she doesn’t ask him to.

“Steve,” she says softly. “I’m going to fall in love with you.”

He can’t do anything but kiss her forehead again. He wants to do it a million times. Wants to kiss every inch of her, wants to trace every part, wants to be gentle and good to her. God, he wants to be good to her. “I’m going to fall in love with you, too,” he says. He doesn’t even have to think about it.

Nancy kisses his jaw. “Good. Because I’m going to keep waking up with you. You… you have a family now, okay? You have me, and Joyce, and Will. We need you.” She reaches up to run a hand through his hair, and he nearly melts at the feeling. “I don’t want to stop waking up with you,” she finishes, and Steve doesn’t know what to do with the tenderness in her eyes.

He wants to be so good to her. It’s still so strange that she wants to be good to him, too.

“You’re an angel,” he whispers.

She smiles. “No. You just deserve this.”

When she says it like that, Steve can almost believe her.

-

They do end up going to school, because they “care about their classes” or whatever. Steve kisses her breath away outside her locker and sweeps off down the hallway with a swagger, still as untouchable as he’s ever been. Except he’s wearing Jonathan’s Pink Floyd shirt, and he’d stolen Nancy’s necklace, and somehow, the delicate little ballet slippers don’t look strange on him. It looks like love.

Wow, she’s sappy today.

She’s halfway into her seat for first period when she allows herself to start thinking. She hasn’t talked to anyone about it yet, the things brewing in her mind; there hasn’t quite been time, but she doesn't quite have the hope, either. There’s a leap of faith that she’s not sure she can take without falling. She’s not even sure if the landing is there.

The note feels heavy in her pocket.  _ Dellrise.  _ Maybe it doesn’t change anything. But it feels like it should; he must have written for a reason. Jonathan’s handwriting is neat- why would he have scrawled this down so hastily? Why would he have left it in the cupholder? Why was he bleeding? Why did he want her to remember Dellrise?

The keys clink under her shirt.

He didn’t want to die.

There’s blood on the corner of the note.

Dellrise.

There’s monsters in Dellrise.

Fuck, there’s monsters in Dellrise.

It’s a leap of faith, and it’s impossible, and she’s going insane; but Jonathan didn’t want to die, and there are monsters in Dellrise, so Nancy pulls out a pen and lets herself lose her mind.

-

Somehow, they have even more leftovers than usual. Carol opens them in the car to steal the strawberries. “So, did you have fun?” she asks, twisting around in her seat. Ellie nods enthusiastically. She has whipped cream smeared on her nose. “Better than Wyoming, huh?” She’s not sure where the Wyoming excuse came from, and she’s pretty sure Tommy doesn’t even believe it, but it’s pretty fun. Ellie nods again, even more earnestly. “Yay!” She pops another strawberry in her mouth.

“What about you, Barbie doll?” Tommy asks. He’s got that annoying little smirk on.

Barb rolls her eyes. “You’re terrible at nicknames, you know that?”

“I’m terrible at  _ everything,  _ dynamite. Everything except looking this good.” He winks in the rearview mirror at her. Barb’s face remains blank.

“I don’t know if good is the word I’d use-” Tommy gasps in offence. “But don’t downplay yourself. You’re not terrible at self-flattery.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“That was an insult?”

Carol sighs loudly, catching their attention again. “You were supposed to tell us what you thought of the date,” she reminds them. And she’s not pouting.

Okay, maybe she’s pouting a little.

Barb melts. That’s fun to watch. It makes Carol’s heart do a little flip in her chest everytime. “It was fun,” she admits. “I- I liked it.” Carol can’t keep herself from lighting up at that, and she reaches into the backseat to squeeze Barb’s hand.

“I’m glad.” She shoots Tommy a smile. (He looks somehow flustered and on the edge of upset at the same time. She’ll ask him about that later. Now doesn’t seem like the time, even if a strand of worry is slipping through her heart.) “We can go out again sometime soon. There are a lot of really fun places around. Fun if you go with the right people, at least.”

Barb’s tone is light. “Oh? And are you the right people?”

“I guess we’ll have to find out,” Carol answers, just a little coy, and turns back around. When she glances over, Tommy is smiling.

She doesn’t notice him glancing in the rearview mirror every few minutes. That’s her second mistake.

They have to stop for gas. Carol crawls over to the passenger seat, sticking her head out to watch Tommy fill the tank. “Hey. Hey, babe. Babe. Look at me.”

He fights down his smile, but she can still see it. “I see you, Carrie.”

“No, look at me.”

“I’m busy.”

“Fine.” She leans back into the car. (Her third mistake.) “Barb, tell me I’m pretty.”

“You’re very pretty,” Barb says patiently. Carol grins and leans back out the window. Tommy raises an eyebrow at her.

“What are you looking at?” she asks. Tommy shakes his head.

“I thought you wanted me to look at y-”

It takes a second to sink in. There’s the crack, a whip against her ears, echoing in the empty lot, and then there’s the choked end of Tommy’s sentence, and then there’s a buzzing silence that lasts for half a second, that lasts for eternity.

It takes a second, and then the second gunshot shatters the backseat window.

“Shit!” Carol scrambles out of the car, ducking down behind it. Barb is beside her in an instant. “Tom- shit, Tom-”

“Don’t worry,” Barb says. Her eyes are wide, wild, but they lock onto Carol’s with a steadfast kind of steel. “Carol. Look at me.” Their hands are locked together. There’s another shot. Footsteps on the asphalt. “I need you to run, Carol, okay? Get inside. There’ll be a phone, or something, or a back door if you can’t find one.”

“But-”

“I’ll get Tommy,” Barb says. “Don’t worry. I’ve got him. Just get inside, okay?”

“Barb-”

There’s a choked scream. The scent of blood bursts into Carol’s nose. “Run. Please. Run for me, okay? I’ve got Tommy. Ellie and I, we’ve got Tommy, it’s okay. He’ll be okay, but you need to go.”

Carol holds onto her hands a little more desperately. “I can’t-”

“You-” Barb squeezes her eyes shut for half a second and mutters, “fuck it.” There’s another shriek. Something heavy drops to the ground. Another gunshot goes off above their head, and Barb’s hand hooks into her hair, pulling her in desperately. The kiss lasts for hardly long enough to process, and then Barb shoves her off. “Go, now.”

Carol kisses her again.

And then she runs.

-

Karen washes the dishes as quietly as she can. Ted is in the living room, watching the news, and it’s not that she’s afraid of him hearing her. It’s just that she wishes he wouldn’t. He never hears her on purpose. If she’s quiet enough, he doesn’t hear her at all. Sometimes even when she’s screaming, yelling, crying, he still can’t figure out how to listen. She almost prefers the silence now.

He’d heard about Jonathan’s death from the news. All he’d said was, “Damn kids,” and then switched the channel. Karen doesn’t know how to cope with the anger still festering everytime the moment flashes through her mind.

She scrubs at the plate in her hands more fiercely. She fucking hates her life. She’s not allowed to, but she does, and she’s not allowed to scream and yell and cry, but she wants to, so instead she stands in her boring, bright kitchen and scrubs with shaking hands. Ted watches the news in the living room. Nancy is at the Byers’s. She’d come by after school, as promised, looking as composed as ever; Karen is sorry for that, for the stone behind her daughter’s eyes. Her gaze shouldn’t have to harden as she steps through her own front door. But it does. It does. And Karen’s does too.

It’s a haunted house. Ghosts, everywhere, lingering. There’s a ghost in every photo on the mantle. Nancy and Mike, sitting on the front porch, leaning against each other with big, toothy grins. (Mike’s first day of kindergarten. Nancy had led him inside by the hand, looking so  _ proud. _ That old pride is a phantom now.) Karen and Ted, sitting in the hospital, looking down together at the bundle in her arms. (The day Nancy was born. His face is so open, so full of love. That adoration is long gone.) Nancy and her grandmother. Mike in his old Little League uniform. Nancy putting a flower crown in Mike’s hair, steadfastly ignoring his scowl. Mike at the beach, flying a kite in the wind, looking happier than he’s looked in years.

There’s a photo that she’s never put up, one that’s tucked into her dresser drawer. She should go pull it out once she’s done shaking. Karen doesn’t remember taking it, but she remembers the moment. It was, oh, four or five years ago, and Mike was crammed with his friends around the table, all four of them staring wide eyed at Jonathan as he ran their game for them. Nancy was there, too. Karen had passed the room as just the right time to hear her start an argument on where she could sit, because Mike said she couldn’t sit with them since she wasn’t in the party, and Nancy said she could sit wherever she wanted, and Jonathan had just groaned and said, “Fine, here!” and moved over so that she could sit on his chair with him.

Nancy had lit up like the sun. Karen knows for a fact that Nancy had spent ages hoping to run the game at least once. Jonathan had even taught her how. She’d never gotten to, though, and Mike never asked. Getting to sit behind the shield and watch everything unfold had made her entire week.

Things like that didn’t make Nancy light up anymore. That innocence has been a ghost for longer than it ever existed.

It’s a precious photo, though. Jonathan’s grinning, a real grin, one arm wrapped around Nancy’s shoulders to keep her from falling off the chair, the other gesturing something to do with his story. Will is halfway out of his seat with excitement, the enrapturement on his face echoed across all the boys’ faces. Nancy mostly just looks smug. Happily so, though. It’s a good look on her.

Karen finishes the dishes and dries her hands. Ted’s news is talking about Heather Holloway, and a sick feeling swells up in her throat.

_ Have faith,  _ she tells herself.

She thinks about Nancy and Mike, the ghosts of them, the phantoms that hover on her mantle. She thinks about that happiness. There’s a chance, maybe, that she can muster those grins back into these damn haunted walls.

She thinks she can find faith in that.

-

Carol scrambles into the gas station, heart hammering so hard that it’s painful. “Get down,” she snaps at the cashier, who’s frozen behind the counter. The window shatters behind them. “Shit!” She darts away from the glass. The bell above the door jangles as it opens.

“Uh, I don’t think-”

Gunshot.

The cashier doesn’t say anything else.

Carol pulls the bathroom door shut behind her just time for a bullet to ricochet off of it. “Shit,” she says again, mostly to herself. God, if they’re inside, then Barb, and Ellie, and  _ Tommy- _ no. No, she can’t think about that. She’ll freeze up if she does.

The footsteps echo outside the door. She can’t breathe.

“Just come out,” a woman’s voice says smoothly. “We just need information, Carol. We’re not going to hurt you.”

_ You shot my boyfriend, you bitch,  _ she thinks, squeezing her eyes shut.  _ Like hell I’m telling you anything. _ She doesn’t have much of a choice though, does she? She’s trapped, and they have guns, and all she can hear is the buzzing in her ears, the choked end of Tommy’s sentence, the silky voice outside saying, “You’re perfectly safe. Just open the door, and we won’t do anything,” as if there wasn’t a dead man slumped over the counter. She can’t escape this. There’s no way out, not with that bitch on the other side of the door.

Her eyes snap open. “This is the worst idea in the world,” she whispers to herself. Just to make sure she’s clear on that.

This isn’t going to work.

She climbs up onto the sink anyway.

-

Dustin’s mom hardly ever does the dishes. She always means to, and then she always gets too comfortable on the couch when they’re eating, and then she doesn’t want to get up, and then she says stuff like, “Don’t you love me?” and “I  _ made  _ dinner, I think it’s only fair-” until he gives in and does it for her.

That’s fine, though. He doesn’t really mind. It’s kind of nice, actually. It’s something about the repetitive movement, the feeling of the water, the way he can just kind of stand there and get his thoughts cleaned up, too. Or maybe he’s just a fucking weirdo. Who knows. He hums along to the faint music coming from his mom’s room, shoving a glass under the water.

He’s worried about Will. He doesn’t know how to do anything about that. He kind of wants to just, like, give him a super long hug and do a Star Wars marathon and let him hold Mews all afternoon, but that’s kind of a weird thing for a guy to ask his guy friends to do, and he knows everything’s fucked up right now, but Will has always cared just a little too much what people think, so Dustin just… he doesn’t know how to ask, anyway. It’s not really his job, either. Mike or Lucas would be better for that. They’re Will’s best friends.

It’s like Dustin thinks he’s not important to them or anything. He’s just not as important as they are to each other. And that’s okay! Maybe he will be someday! They’re still his favorite people in the meantime, so he doesn’t mind. (Okay, he minds a little. Part of him, a little tiny part that he shoves to the side, is kind of tempted to look for a new friend. Not a replacement for his old friends. Just somebody that can be equally as important to him as he is to them. A fresh start, or something.)

He finishes the dishes as quickly as he can. He always slips when he washes the steak knife, because the handle is too fucking slippery for its own good, and he curses loudly. His mom yells something indistinct. Probably a reprimand. Oops.

Dad never used to lecture him for his language. Hell, Dad’s the one that taught him how to curse in the first place. Not intentionally, but it still counts. He doesn’t know what happened to Dad. He tries not to think about it too much.

He wonders if it’s better knowing, though. Those first five days, did it hurt more? Or did Will wish they’d never found the body? Is Will going to be like Dustin now? Is he going to shove it down and pretend it never happened, pretend Jonathan never existed, pretend nobody’s curious? Or does he have to face up to it, since he knows? Dustin hasn’t seen him since the 11th. He hasn’t been at school.

Dustin wrinkles his nose. He doesn’t really want to think about this.

Maybe he’ll bike by the Byers’s tomorrow.

-

“Oh my God.”

He pulls her up out of the ditch, and she stumbles into a kind of half-hug that he doesn’t return. “Sorry, I just-” she pulls back for half a second, and then back in again. “I’m sorry, I just… God, what the hell is going on, I-”

“Hey, it’s okay.” He finally returns the hug, patting her back awkwardly. “You, uh- I don’t really… know how to explain it. I’m sorry.”

She laughs into his shoulder, breathless. “It’s not your fault.”

“I hope not,” he replies. His grip is firm. She’s never hugged Jonathan before, but it’s nice. It’s safe. “You’re okay, though. I promise.”

When he says it like that, Heather can almost believe him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> could i write a chapter without drawn-out, intense emotional introspection? yes. but that's not why you're here. and if it is you certainly have not made it all the way to chapter 8. so this is what we're going with, i guess
> 
> i hope you liked it!! drop a comment to let me know and i'll love you forever


	9. fragile edges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The smell of blood still hangs heavy in the air.  
> -  
> They’re going to kill monsters together.  
> -  
> or; the world is coming to an end, but isn't there hope in desperation?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why am i so mad about how close we are to the end of the fic. only five more chapters. why does that anger me on a personal level. you wrote it, dumbass
> 
> anyway!! please enjoy!! everyone is extra dumb this time

_ Fuck _ Jonathan.

Is that harsh? Maybe. Probably. Will’s fairly certain it doesn’t matter anymore, though. Dad had swung by last night. Ruffled Will’s hair and laughed when he flinched, then told Mom he wouldn’t let her hold a funeral for his “pussy son” and left. Mom had cried in her room for hours.

Will hadn’t thought about a funeral until last night, but now he can’t  _ stop  _ thinking about it, and it’s making him sick. He doesn’t want a funeral. He doesn’t want to go. He doesn’t want to stand out in the cold November air and watch them lower a box into the ground. He doesn’t want to bury Jonathan. Jonathan isn’t supposed to be gone yet. It’s not because he was weak or worthless or a waste of space like Dad said. It’s because he was fifteen. He was fifteen. He was strong and he was soft and he was good and he was  _ everything;  _ he was a brother and a best friend and now he’s gone. And now Will is alone with a space heater and his Mom’s closed bedroom door.

He doesn’t want a funeral. He doesn’t want to watch them bury his only hope of ever having anything better than this.

Mike’s hand lands softly on his. “Hey, Will, you with me?” he asks quietly. That’s what he asks now. He doesn’t ask how Will is doing, or if he’s okay. He just tugs him real softly out of his head so that he doesn’t get too caught up in cliffs and cycles of lament.

“I am now,” he replies. Flips his hand over to squeeze Mike’s. Normally he wouldn’t dare- he gets made fun of enough- but it’s better to be pushed at from the outside world than push away what will heal the world of hurt inside him. He glances over to where Lucas is napping next to them. “Think he’ll wake up for the lesson?”

Mike leans over to look. “Yeah, definitely not. Probably stayed on the channel with Dustin last night. I switched it off.”

“Where is Dustin, anyway?” Will can’t help the tendril of panic that immediately curls up into his throat.  _ (Fuck  _ Jonathan.)

Mike squeezes his hand. “Hey. I’m sure he’s just at home, okay?” He gives Will a reassuring smile. “His mom’s sick, that’s what he was bitching about on the radio. He’s probably just taking care of her.”

“Okay,” Will whispers. He takes a deep breath in and out. “Okay, yeah. He’s probably just taking care of her.” He feels like an idiot, having to repeat it, but his mind is moving a little slow. Everything’s been in a haze recently.

_ Dustin is okay,  _ he repeats in his mind.  _ Dustin is okay. Dustin is okay. _

School won’t even start for another ten minutes. He shouldn’t have to do this. He shouldn’t have to feel like this.

_ Fuck  _ Jonathan.

Because _ fuck,  _ he misses him so much.

-

“Ellie-”

“Shh.” Barb blinks back tears- where did those come from?- and pulls Tommy more firmly against her. He whimpers at the shift, eyes squeezing shut. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs in his ear. “It’ll be okay. Just stay quiet.”

Everything is a blur inside her head. Ellie’s hands in the air, blood from her nose, blood on the ground. Tommy’s blood spilling over the asphalt. Bodies spilling down mid-step. Bullets spilling across the lot. Carol vanishing inside the gas station. Grabbing Tommy. The blonde woman aiming, and the crack of the trigger, and the brush of wind past her ear, and Tommy swinging around to shove her behind him. Stumbling into the woods. Falling into this goddamn ditch.

For a moment, Tommy had just laid there on the ground, sprawled out on his back with a pale face and the breath knocked all the way out of him. For a moment, she’d thought the ghost was knocked out of him, too.

She doesn’t know how to articulate the feeling that washed over her when his chest shuddered again. It was something deeper than relief, darker than delight, intense and melancholy and grateful. She hadn’t had a choice, dragging him into this alcove with her, but it makes her heart twist everytime he flinches or whines. “It’s okay,” she whispers again. The footsteps above their heads make her freeze. She covers Tommy’s mouth with her hand, hardly daring to breathe. A few leaves go tumbling down the side of the ditch.

A gun clicks.

Barb’s heart fails.

The footsteps turn and walk away.

She doesn’t move for another full minute, not daring to believe it. Tommy twists in her grip and gasps out loud at the movement. The noise echoed around them, bouncing off the trees, bouncing through the shadows, bouncing back into their alcove, and-

And nothing. Barb’s held breath floods out of her body all at once. “Hey, hey,” she murmurs, laying Tommy down across the ground carefully. “Hey, it’s okay.” She lifts his shirt to check the damage. He hadn’t been pierced, thank God, but there was a bloody chunk of his side blown away, and her stomach flipped at the sight. “God, Tom.” She sat back on her heels, trying to think of what to do. He had been lost in a haze of broken mumbles and half-closed eyes since they’d landed down here. She isn’t sure if she can wake him up, not when he’s bleeding so heavily.

Fuck. She lets out a long, trembling breath.

Tommy twists again, whimpering. His eyes crack open. “Ca’ol?” he mumbles hopefully.

Barb winces. “No, Tommy. It’s Barb. Barbara, remember me?”

“Oh, Barb.” His hand reaches out, tangling weakly into hers. She squeezes it, hoping it was reassuring enough. “Okay. Trust you.”

Her heart aches. “Good. I need you to trust me just a little longer, okay?” He nods. “Okay. I’m gonna help you sit up now. You’re gonna hide for me, okay? Can you do that?” Tommy nods again, his hand shaking in her grip. Barb has to bite back tears. She’s not going to cry over Tommy Hagan.

Tommy Hagan twisted around to get between her and a bullet. Tommy Hagan is laying on the ground, bleeding on the leaves, and he  _ trusts her,  _ and Barb doesn’t want to let go of his hand just yet. Barb just wants to sit here and hold on as tight as she can and cry into Tommy Hagan’s stupid Beatles shirt until all the hopelessness and terror comes flooding out through her tears. She wants to be okay. She wants  _ him _ to be okay.

She’s crying over Tommy Hagan. She blinks back the tears and slides an arm under him, bracing his weight. He’s lighter than she thought, but still mostly dead weight- she shudders at the thought- and it takes a few minutes of careful maneuvering to get him sitting in the alcove. She brushes leaves over his feet, just in case they’re sticking out.

When she goes to move away, he scrabbles desperately to maintain his grip on her hand. “Barb- Barbara, wait-” She waits. She tightens her grip again. “Don’- don’ leave me,” he manages. His breathing is labored. Her chest feels tight.

“I have to,” she says quietly, but she moves back to his side for just a moment. “I’m going to get something to help you.”

Tommy’s other hand comes up to touch her face. “You’re crying,” he mumbles. His thumb rubs at the tears, uncoordinated. “Don’ cry.” He sounds so concerned. Barb laughs, the sound half choked. Tommy’s eyes flutter. “Don’ leave me,” he repeats, quieter.

Barb leans in on instinct and kisses his forehead. Something like a smile crosses his face, although it’s mixed with a half-grimace of pain. “I’ll be back so, so soon, Tommy,” she promises. “I just need to get something to help you. Please let me help you.”

He stares at her through hazy, half-lidded eyes for a moment longer before his hand falls away from her cheek. “Mkay, angel,” he agrees. Barb ignores the way her chest tightens and squeezes his hand again before she crawls out of the alcove.

The forest is silent around her.

Barb closes her eyes and takes a few precious moments to pray.

-

He’s holding her hand, which should be weird, but it’s not weird, because everything is so fucked up that if he wasn’t holding onto her she’d lose her mind. It’s like a tether. It grounds her. He pulls her into his side. “You’re shaking.”

“I know.” Heather stares down at the glassy hollow, the thin distance between her and the folded monster stretching like miles. “It’s cold.”

Jonathan squeezes her hand. “Sorry.” She almost laughs. It’s so nonsensical, him apologising for the temperature, that she has to hide a grin against his shoulder. Jonathan apologises a lot, she’s learning. It’s just who he is.

She looks back at the monster, but keeps leaning her head on his shoulder all the same. It’s another point of contact to keep her steady. “It’s…” she swallows hard. “It’s sleeping?”

“It’s nocturnal,” he explains. “It’s… this is the daytime, here. I don’t know how long it lasts, but…” he squeezes her hand again. “It’s asleep for now.” Heather nods. They keep standing there, hand in hand, staring down at the thing that ruined them. Staring down at the monster, folded up all nice and neat, folded up like something innocent. Folded up like it hadn’t dragged her through a bloody split in her own front door. It should be frightening to stand here. There’s only a few inches between them and the hollow. But Jonathan leans his head on top of hers, and Heather feels safer than she ever remembers.

He always opens his mouth a few times before he speaks, like he’s rethinking his words. “Heather?”

“Yes?”

He pauses again for a minute. He does that a lot too, like it’s hard to string his thoughts all together. “My family,” he finally says. “Do you know if they’re okay?”

Oh.

Heather’s breath seizes up in her chest. All this time, and she hadn’t thought- oh, of course he doesn’t know. He has no idea. He’s been here, being hunted, being chased, in a forest that’s not quite alive and not quite ghostly. “Jonathan…” She can feel him freeze. She draws back. “Jonathan,” she says again, and her voice is thick, and her throat is tight. “They found your body.”

He just stares at her, like he can’t comprehend her words. “My body?”

“On Saturday,” Heather says faintly. His hand is trembling in hers. She tightens her grip. “Luke Sattler found it in the quarry.”

“In the  _ quarry?”  _ he repeats, clearly incredulous. “I wasn’t anywhere  _ near-” _

“Your car was parked in the woods,” she continues, even though speaking is painful through the tightness of her throat, because he doesn’t know. He has no idea. “They said-” She takes a shaky breath. “They called it suicide.”

Jonathan’s entire face falls.

“Suicide?” he asks hoarsely. She nods. “God, my  _ mom,”  _ he murmurs. “And  _ Will,  _ fuck, poor kid, I wouldn’t-” his eyes are bright as they fix back on hers. “I wouldn’t do that,” he says, and fuck, his voice is shattered. “I would never. I couldn’t leave them like that. They- they have to know that, how could they think-”

She lets him crumble into her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, and it’s almost absurd, because Heather didn’t tell the papers that Jonathan Byers threw himself off a cliff, but she’s sorry anyway. She’s so sorry that her body aches with it. He shakes in her arms. She just holds him tighter. “It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay,” she whispers, even though it’s an empty promise. They have no idea what’ll be okay. They have no idea what monsters are awake in the daytime here.

But Heather doesn’t want to think about monsters. So she pulls Jonathan as close as she can and thinks about him instead.

-

The smell of blood still hangs heavy in the air. The men are still scattered across the asphalt, necks at strange angles, blood still trickling out of their eyes and mouths and ears. It had been horrific, what Ellie had done, but Barb feels no sympathy. She picks her way through the corpses with a twisted mouth.

The glass of the gas station door is shattered, and the thought she’s been repressing for sanity’s sake comes roaring back:  _ Carol. _

Had she sent her into a trap? Had she ruined everything? Was there a body in there riddled with bullets, red blood in red hair?

Barb doesn’t want to go inside.

But Tommy is bleeding out on the forest floor, so she swallows her terror and picks through the glass on the floor. The cashier is slumped over the counter. She winces at the sight. There’s no sign of Carol, though. Barb can’t decide if that’s relieving or not. She searches the aisles quickly, collecting all the first aid supplies she can find, and sends up a prayer for forgiveness before she dumps out the backpack by the cashier’s feet, shoving it all inside. She grabs a few snacks for good measure.

The car is gone.

She decides not to think about it too hard just yet.

-

“You know,” Heather says after a while. Jonathan feels a little ashamed, falling apart on her like that, but she didn’t seem to mind. “Nancy misses you a lot.”

It’s not what he expected to hear. A laugh gets startled out of him. “Nancy?”

She nods. “Mhm. She cried and everything.” There’s a fond little smile on her face. “I wouldn’t worry about your family too much. She’s been taking care of them.” A stab of guilt rips through him again, but he nods. He trusts Nancy. As much as he can trust someone he barely knows anymore, at least. “Steve, too,” Heather adds, which is nearly nonsensical.

“Steve Harrington?”

“Steve Harrington,” Heather confirms. She squeezes his hand. It sends a little jolt of safety through him. “He’s been driving your brother to school every day.” Something about that picture, Will climbing out of Steve’s dumb rich kid car in the mornings, makes Jonathan’s chest soften. “He and Nancy are… they haven’t given up on you. Everybody knows it.” She wrinkles her nose. “People are dicks about it,” she adds. The guilt goes through Jonathan’s chest again. “Everybody whispers about it. I’ve heard the rumors about you and Steve hooking up way too many times.”

Jonathan can’t help but laugh again. “Yeah, pretty sure I’m not his type,” he replies. Heather laughs along with him.

“Oh, and he’s yours?” she teases.

Jonathan feels a little flicker of fear, which is dumb, because he’s trapped in some kind of second world that runs on Dungeons and Dragons logic and has literal fucking monsters, and nobody’s coming for him, because somehow, everyone thinks he killed himself. A comment from Heather Holloway shouldn’t make his bones seize with fear.

But he doesn’t want her to let go of his hand. So it’s something like horror in his heart when her grin fades away.

“Oh.”

And she doesn’t let go.

Instead she says, “Well, he’s cute enough, I guess. Not cute enough to have a crush on, but to each their own, I guess.”

Jonathan flushes. “I don’t have a crush on him! I just-” he huffs. Heather laughs again, muffling it in his shoulder. “I  _ don’t,”  _ he insists. “I mean, he’s been a total dick to me. Of course I don’t. But like, the past few weeks, he’s-” he sighs. Heather’s shoulders are shaking, clearly enjoying his humiliation. “He’s been nicer,” he mumbles, somewhat reluctantly. “And he, like- he keeps, like, trying to get my attention? I guess? I mean, he probably just wants to tease me about something, but he’s been, like... shut up.”

“I’m not saying anything,” Heather protests.

“You’re laughing!”

“Of course I’m laughing! You have a crush on Steve Harrington!”

_ “I don’t have a crush on him!” _

Heather pats his elbow. “Hey, it’s okay,” she says, and Jonathan ducks his head, something like a smile on his face. “For what it’s worth, I almost kissed Nancy once.”

Jonathan only chokes a little bit.

Heather laughs at him again. “What, are you jealous?”

“Shut up.”

“You  _ are.” _

“I’m not- stop that!” He doesn’t mean it, though. Listening to her laugh makes all of this seem just a little less stifling. It’s not okay yet. But it’s better. “You’re a jerk,” he informs her. She shrugs, unrepentant. “Stop accusing me of liking people.”

Heather raises an eyebrow. “Okay, but am I right?”

He flushes again. “Shut up.” Her grin is  _ unbearable. _ “I saved your life! You’re not allowed to bully me!” he protests.

“Aw, but it’s so fun!”

“...okay, fine,” he relents. “You can bully me a little bit.”

He doesn’t mean to laugh. She just looks so  _ happy. _

-

She wishes Jonathan were here. She’s been wishing that since she came stumbling through the tree, but right now, it’s an intense burning down to her core. She wishes Jonathan were here. Not just because she misses him, not just because he deserves to be safe, not just because he’s her friend- she misses him terribly in this moment specifically because she doesn’t have a single fucking clue how to drive.

She’s figured it out somewhat, she thinks. Foot on the pedal. Hands on the wheel. She doesn’t know how to stop it, so she’s been using her powers for that. She’s also been using her powers to keep it running, though, because she doesn’t have the key, and her adrenaline is high, but the strain is starting to pull her to pieces. Her head aches. She knows there’s blood running in a steady stream from her nose. But she has to get away.

She wants Barb and Tommy and Carol back. She misses them, too.

There’s another car behind her. She tries to go faster, but they speed up too, and her focus shudders. The car comes to an abrupt halt, skidding off the side of the road. Is it supposed to be flashing blue and red like that? Tommy’s car doesn’t flash blue and red.

The man that appears in her window makes her flinch to the side. He knocks. He’s saying something, but she can’t hear over the pounding in her ears. The engine roars to life for a second, then dies again.

Jonathan would know what to do. She misses him down to her core.

She didn’t lock the doors.

She tries to pull it closed again, but the attempt sends a blinding jolt of pain through her head, and she collapses into a ball before she can make out his words. Distantly, she’s aware of her own screaming.

She misses Jonathan.

The world is a thousand burning colors, and then the world is black.

-

Tommy doesn’t stop breathing, so Barb’s heart keeps beating just the same in her chest. He’s leaning into her side, the wound cleaned and bandaged as well as she knows how, sipping at a bottle of water. His face is still pale, but he’s awake. That’s enough for now. “We have to get out of here.”

He whines in the back of his throat, leaning further into her side. “No…” Barb rolls her eyes. Tommy takes another sip of water and winces. “You’re sure you didn’t grab any vodka?”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Thanks.”

Barb smiles before she can help it. Tommy’s hand finds its way into hers again. “You know,” he begins, his voice more contemplative than she’s accustomed to, “I think I get it now.” Barb’s heart leaps in her throat. She hums for him to continue. “Steve. When I asked him about Nancy, about her thing with Byers. He said he didn’t mind. Not that he didn’t care. Just didn’t mind.” His voice is… fragile, maybe. “I think I get it now.”

Barb swallows hard. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” There’s a pause. “I love her, you know.”

And she does. It’s obvious, every time he sees her, that his entire world gets brighter. Carol is his sunrise. And it’s obvious, because Barb thinks, if things weren’t so fucked up, she might start to feel the same way. “She loves you too,” she says instead, because Tommy makes Carol’s eyes go softer than she has ever seen. When Tommy smiles, Carol’s whole body relaxes. It’s something like envy that goes through her when she sees it, except that softness in Carol’s eyes makes her heart too tender to feel something so harsh.

Tommy laughs under his breath. “Carol loves everything,” he replies. “Except Hawkins, I guess. And being told what to do.” Barb swats at his chest. “I didn’t say it was a bad thing!” he protests, swatting her hand in return. “I think she’s wonderful!”

“She is wonderful,” Barb admits. Tommy grins, and her chest goes soft on the inside. She’s pink, maybe. “Stop that.”

“Smiling?”

“No, dumbass, stop-” she huffs, trying to wipe the heat off her face. It doesn’t work, obviously, so she hides in her hands instead. She can feel Tommy’s shoulders shaking with silent laughter. “Fuck you.”

He presses a kiss to her shoulder. “Mhm. So, you were saying?” She glares at him through her fingers. “What?”

“Nothing,” she replies, because she’s absolutely not going to tell him he looks cute with the afternoon sunlight on his face like that. “We need to get out of here.” He sighs, but finishes his water and braces himself, using the wall to heave himself up onto his feet. Barb catches his arm and hooks it around her shoulders. “You can walk?”

He tries a few shaky steps. “Yeah, I can walk.” He gives her that grin again. It’s damn near unbeatable, isn’t it? Even right now, shaking and shuddering and pale as a fading star, he’s got that smile spreading over his face. Barb looks away before she does anything dumber than smile back. “How are we gonna get home?”

Barb sighs. “I have no fucking clue,” she admits. “But we won’t figure it out until we try.”

Tommy’s still breathing, so she takes another breath, takes another step, and lets her heart keep beating steady in her chest.

-

Nancy and Steve are curled up together on her bed. He’s tracing a finger over the notes she’d put together. The ink is shaky. Her pen had been trembling in her hand. “This is…”

“Don’t call me crazy.”

“I’m not.” He presses a kiss to her cheek, his eyes still on the paper. “Trust me, baby, I don’t think you’re crazy. I…” he breathes out slowly. “Wow.” Nancy swallows hard, watching his face with careful eyes. She knows it’s unlikely. She’s lost her mind.

The thing is, Jonathan is worth losing her mind for.

Steve says, “So how do you think the portal works?” because Jonathan is worth it to him, too. Something in Nancy’s chest gets a little fonder at that.

She points at one of her bullet points. “Okay, so obviously I haven’t seen it. But I think it’s connected to the… the monster. So it can move between here and Dellrise. Or wherever he is.” She pulls the note out of her pocket. “Here, look. He left this in his car.” Steve takes it carefully from her, looking almost reverent. Like touching the ghost of Jonathan is a kind of prayer. Nancy has to close her eyes to keep from kissing him. “It’s all messy. His handwriting has always been neat. He was trying to tell me something.”

Steve points to another bullet point. “Heather,” he says. “You think she’s in Dellrise too?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. It just seems suspicious, doesn’t it? Jonathan, and then her, just days apart?”

Steve is quiet for a moment. She thinks maybe he’s just processing, but there’s a furrow between his brows. He’s thinking. Nancy looks back at her notes and waits for him to pull his thoughts together.

“Can I see that again?” he asks, gesturing to the newspaper on her other side. Nancy hands it over. “Look at this.” He points to one of the lines. “There was blood on the door.” He lays the note down again. “Here. Blood on the note. Maybe…” he swallows hard. “In biology, a few weeks ago, we were talking about sharks. They can smell blood from, like, a fuck-mile away. So maybe this monster-”

“This monster is attracted by blood,” Nancy finishes. “You’re a  _ genius,  _ Steve Harrington-” and she doesn’t hold herself back from kissing him this time. They almost fall off the bed from her enthusiasm, but he catches her. He always catches her. She’d go to hell and back for him, she thinks, and somehow, it’s not scary to know that he’d do the same for her. He’d kill the monsters for her.

They’re going to kill monsters together. It’s for Jonathan, but Jonathan is  _ them,  _ is half of this overwhelming adoration that has her pressing kiss after kiss after kiss to Steve’s lips, his forehead, his cheeks. Jonathan is half of the happiness that’s keeping her heartbeat steady. Jonathan is half of both of them. He’s  _ part  _ of them, part of this. Without him, they’re terrified, they’re terrible, they’re just two stranded teenagers bereft an anchor. Without Steve, she and Jonathan were just estranged rotations of a tired story; not good enough, not brave enough, not reaching out. It’s better with all of them. They need all of them.

“I think,” Nancy says, “We can save him.”

“I hope so.” Steve kisses her forehead. “You know I’d do anything, right?”

She thinks about the way he’d held the note, like Jonathan gives him faith. Like Jonathan is his faith. “Yeah,” she says, her voice quiet. Her hand clenches in the Pink Floyd shirt. “Yeah, I know, babe.”

-

There’s a kid passed out in Tommy Hagan’s car.

Karen stands a bit behind him, staring over his shoulder. “My Lord,” she says.

“My Lord,” Hopper agrees, then cringes slightly, because when has he ever said  _ that  _ in his life- not the time. Kid passed out in Tommy Hagan’s car.

There’s blood sprayed across the paint.

“My Lord,” Hopper says again. Not Tommy, too. He’s rough around the edges, sure, but aren’t they all, and he’s got this emptiness to himself sometimes that feels like looking in a mirror. Hopper had enough of a tussle with his own conscience telling the Holloways they’d lost their daughter to some kind of midnight mystery. Fuck, but he’ll lose himself if there’s another tragedy.

Karen pushes him aside. He’s too fragile to stand his ground today. That’s why she’s here; she’s strength enough for him. She pulls the kid into her arms. “Change of plans.” She spins, somehow still crisp, still composed, even with blood staining her cashmere sweater. “Come on, Jim.”

And so he does.

She keeps the kid in her lap all the way back to Hawkins, and she keeps Jim from falling to pieces, and the world keeps spinning on its axis just a little longer.

-

Crawling out of the vents shouldn’t have worked. Honestly, Carol’s a little insulted that it did, but she’d done it, and she’d stumbled five miles through the woods with blood stained shoes and broken lungs and surrounded by fear and growing shadows and nothing, nothing, nothing. She’s alone. She’s got blood all over her shoes, and she’s alone, and all she can think of is Tommy crumbling to the ground, is the desperation she tasted on Barb’s lips. She wants them back. She wants them to hold her and tell her its okay. She just wants everything to be okay.

But it’s not.

She comes staggering out of the woods after five miles and crashes straight into someone. “Oh!” Carol isn’t normally fragile, but the impact is unexpected, and she crumbles to the ground. She doesn’t mean to start crying. She just feels so  _ weak,  _ and nothing is easy right now, but she’d crumbled right down. Nothing is easy except falling, and Barb and Tommy aren’t here to catch her.

“Oh, honey-” the woman- she vaguely recognises her, she thinks, in the sense that she has some hazy recollection of everyone in Hawkins- kneels down, hands resting on her shoulders. Her face is creased in worry. “Are you alright? What’s wrong?” Carol pulls her blood stained feet in and huddles around herself. “Oh, is that…”

_ “Tommy,”  _ Carol says, and she can hardly breathe. “He- I don’t know where he  _ is-” _

“It’s alright, sweetie. It’s alright. Just take a deep breath for me, okay?” The woman rubs her shoulders again. “Come with me. Let me get you inside. Lord, what happened?”

Carol allows herself to be bustled up through the backyard and into the house. She was tucked into an armchair, and there was a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and a cup of tea shoved into her hands. A hand ran through her hair gently. She shuddered, feeling some of the tension leak out from her shoulders. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. Her voice is rough from tears.

The woman clicks her tongue. “Nonsense. Don’t be sorry.” Carol smiles faintly.

“I’m Carol.”

“You can call me Claudia. It’s a pleasure, Carol.” For the first time, she takes in her savior’s- Claudia’s- appearance. She’s wearing a faded old shirt and pajama pants, with sneakers that had clearly been hastily shoved on. They’re different colors. Shoes don’t come as mismatched sets, do they? And who wears pajamas in the woods this late in the day, anyway? Carol frowns. “Why are you in pajamas?” It comes out harsher than intended, and she winces. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, I-”

“It’s alright.” Claudia’s smile grows weary. “I was looking for my son. He- well. I haven’t seen him since last night.”

Carol’s not sure how she knows, but she does, instantly and utterly and with a chill through her whole body. The ghost of something gray and ghastly lingers in Claudia’s walls.

The light flickers.

Carol can’t breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so that's. that's that. aha plot twist. i'm so fun and cool. please drop a comment to let me know what you thought!! or to yell at me that's also fair


	10. radio shows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the cliff Jonathan jumped off of. And fuck, but right now, Mike understands. He hates him for it, and he hates himself, but he understands, because a watery void would be so much better than this stupid fucking rage that does nothing and turns him into nothing and strands him here understanding the temptation of death.  
> -  
> or; there's nowhere left to go but forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im BACK baby and i am. better than ever? no im not. i have corona for the third time which you'd THINK would be scientifically impossible but tragically it appears not so. anyway i'm blowing off my exams for this bc u know. it be like that
> 
> the summary is angsty but this chapter is actually very tender so. now you know

It’s slow step by slow step, picking through the woods, until they make it through. Onwards and onwards again, and keep breathing, and keep going, and the end will come. It takes eternities of paranoid glances over their shoulders, eons of labored breaths, but the end does come, eventually, as the two of them stumble out into the sunlight. “This way,” Tommy says. It’s the first thing he’s said in ages. His voice is faded. Barb keeps holding onto his hand.

The two of them make it up to the front of the trailer, but there’s a crash from inside, and Tommy winces, stopping short. “Jesus,” he mutters. “Come on, let’s just-” He pulls Barb around the side and drops down, sitting in the dirt. She gingerly follows suit, tossing a concerned glance up at the window. Yelling is echoing through the glass. Tommy seems unphased. “Didn’t know he was home,” is all he says, and then leans on her shoulder again, closing his eyes.

Barb lets him. It’s nice, having him lean on her like this. Makes her feel needed. Makes her feel like maybe he’s almost safe. God, she just wants him to be safe so badly. “How’s your side?”

“Bad,” he replies, and smiles up at her. “Feels like I’ve been shot.”

“You’re an idiot.”

His smile widens. “Yeah.”

Barb doesn’t mean to say it. She doesn’t, really. Now isn’t the time, she knows that- it’s a terrible time, actually, but it’s on the tip of her tongue, and he’s smiling up at her, and she can’t help but burst out, “I kissed her.”

Tommy doesn’t even blink. “Okay.” He adjusts slightly. He’s still holding her hand.

Barb waits for the rest of what he’s going to say, but he… doesn’t continue. He just leans against her shoulder and closes his eyes. He looks comfortable. “Are you mad?” she presses, because before she lets him cling to her, she has to know if he’ll be happy to let go. If he resents her, she needs to know before she lets herself get any more attached.

“Well,” Tommy says, and squeezes her hand. “Was  _ she  _ mad?”

Barb blinks. “No.”

“Okay. Then I’m not mad, either.” He says it so simple, like it’s a given. Just an exchange of fact. Barb can’t bring herself to do anything but nod slowly. “I told you, Barbie doll, I don’t mind,” he adds, sounding amused.

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

“Aw, but-” 

She cuts him off, and he laughs into it, and- well, it’s a little awkward when she pulls back, but she just clears her throat and pretends her face isn’t flushed pink. “Had to make it equal,” she offers as explanation.

Tommy’s eyes are sparkling. “Okay. Now the playing field is level again, huh?”

“Well, actually,” Barb says, already cursing her own words, “I kissed her twice.”

Tommy tugs himself up a little bit. “Oh. Well, we can’t have that,” he says, and  _ fuck,  _ this is so not the time, but his hands are cupping her face and she leans in before she can stop herself. When is the time, really? So he’s bleeding and the trailer is shaking with screaming at their backs and the world feels like it’s going to end. So what? What have they got that’s better? God knows that if the world hadn’t come crashing down, Barb never would have ended up sitting here with Tommy Hagan in the first place. So if she kisses him at a bad time, who says it’s not the best time she’ll have?

She kisses him again, and then says, “Well, I guess I have an outstanding debt with her now.”

“A debt of just one. Not much of a gambler, then?” Tommy asks, and he’s so  _ annoying  _ that one turns into two, and two turns into three, and then Barb finally gets her composure under control and pulls back. He’s just as flushed as she is, she notices, which makes her oddly proud. “Risky player.”

“Only for you,” she says, and cringes, because that’s so  _ dumb. _

But Tommy’s grin spreads through her like the sun. So. Maybe dumb isn’t so bad, sometimes. “And Carol,” he adds. He says it so casually, like it’s normal, like it makes any sense at all. Like they’re not breaking every rule by sitting here like this, playing at a game neither of them understand.

“And Carol,” Barb agrees, because it’s a game worth playing.

-

Okay, yes, it’s humiliating when Karen comes in to find him half hanging off her daughter’s bed, but Nancy looks much more embarrassed than him and he’s had a confusing day, so forgive him for bursting out with, “Where’s your fridge?” instead of literally anything else.

Karen doesn’t even look phased. “If you head downstairs and pass through the room with the TV- that’s the living room- there’s a place we call the kitchen, and if you look very carefully, you might be able to find it,” she replies. “But first, can I talk to you two about something?” Nancy closes her notebook, sitting up. She’s still flushed slightly pink with embarrassment. For one terrifying moment, Steve is certain Karen is going to ask them about condoms. Instead she says, “It’s about Jonathan,” which is… somehow worse, but at least has nothing to do with sex. Probably. Steve hasn’t really sorted out his feelings on that yet, but he’s pretty sure Karen Wheeler isn’t going to ask him about it.

“What is it?” Nancy asks. Karen looks ready to respond, but then there’s a low string of swears from the hallway, and she whips around, already looking disappointed. “Wh- Hopper?”

The chief’s voice comes from the hall in a kind of whisper shout. “Hey, kids.”

Steve and Nancy glance at each other. She looks just as baffled as him for once. Karen pinches her nose and says, “Okay. Nancy, can he- we need your bed.”

“My bed?” Nancy repeats incredulously.

“Yes,” Karen confirms. “Your bed. We have a child. Speaking of which- Steve, have you heard from Tommy today?” There’s a lilt to her voice that he doesn’t like, a cadence that makes him nervous, and his stomach flips at the dark flare in her eyes when he shakes his head. “Well, then,” she says quietly, and she doesn’t say anything else. Hopper comes into the room.

And lo and behold, they  _ do  _ have a child. Passed out, bruised up, and covered in blood, but a child, small and fragile, cradled in his arms. A child that can’t be any older than Will. Steve’s heart feels like it’s suffocating in his chest. He automatically crosses the room and holds out his arms. Hopper pauses, studying his eyes, but concedes the limp little body into Steve’s arms. “Careful.”

“Of course,” Steve replies softly. He lays the kid on the bed. “Nance, can you go get a wet towel or something? So we can get some of this blood off?”

Her eyes are concerned when he glances up, but there’s a fond smile curving at her lips and something golden warm in her face that makes it easier to breathe. “Of course.” She slips off the bed and leaves the room, drawing her mom and the chief out with her. Steve focuses back on the kid. They’re dirty, banged up- there’s a rage that swells up completely unbidden from his stomach, igniting a wrath in his bones, to see the bruises and cuts on this kid’s face. Who the hell thought they had the agency to put those there? What kind of absent god let someone so little get so hurt?

And what does Tommy have to do with it? And why does Tommy’s name make his thoughts ache with worry?

His hand pauses hovering in midair. The door creeps back open, but Nancy’s familiar footsteps do nothing to calm the unease coiling up his spine. Beneath the blood and dirt, the fabric of the kid’s shirt was soft cotton, tie dyed, the sleeves cut off.  _ He’d  _ cut the sleeves off. “This is Carol’s shirt,” he says numbly. “This is- why’s- what’s going on? What’s-”

“Steve.” Nancy’s hand lands on his shoulder. Her voice is low and gentle and sweet, steadying the shake in Steve’s hands as much as it can be steadied. “I don’t know, honey,” she says. She presses the cloth he’d asked for into his hand. “We’re going to figure it out, I promise. But let’s help the kid first, okay? That’s the most important thing to do right now.”

Steve doesn’t know why he feels like crying. “I wanna see Tommy,” he whispers. His voice is hoarse, scratching at his throat like sandpaper. “I’m scared.”

Nancy kisses his temple. “Me too. But Tommy isn’t here right now.” She rubs at his shoulder. Her fingertips are full of comfort. “We  _ will  _ make sure he’s safe,” she promises fiercely. “But first, we have to take care of this kid, okay?”

“Okay.” He nods, and then nods again more firmly. “Okay. I can do that.” He reaches up one hand to her cheek, drawing her down into a kiss, and drinks the certainty she lives by into himself, just a little. “I love you,” he whispers.

Nancy let her fingers linger under his chin. “I’ll let you know when I feel the same,” she replies. It feels more like a promise than a rejection, and Steve laughs, kissing her one more time before he turns to the kid passed out in Carol’s old fourth of July shirt and starts to clean the blood.

He can clean the blood. The pieces of his life may keep falling, may keep cascading, may keep crumbling apart at the seams, but he can survive the avalanche and hold his people close. And when the rocks stop coming, he can clean the blood. He can do that. He can’t fix the mountains, but he can make living among the rubble a little more okay.

-

There are monsters in the daytime, too.

Jonathan doesn’t know where the screaming is coming from, but he doesn’t like how young it sounds. He doesn’t like the familiarity it strikes inside his shaking bones.

Heather grips his hand a little tighter.

If the hunt won’t end, then maybe it’s time for them to be monsters too.

-

His radio is gone.

-

Dustin’s not okay.

He doesn’t say it. He won’t say it, not with Will so fragile, not with Lucas so drawn and tired, but he knows down to his bones, down to his blood, down to his soul, that Dustin’s not okay. Mike doesn’t know anything, but he knows this. His mom’s face is blooming with sympathy when he gets home. He feels sick.

He keeps his face straight and his back unbroken until he makes it to the quarry, and then he crumbles down to his knees and he  _ screams. _

“Fuck you!” he yells out over the empty air. “Fuck you!  _ Fuck  _ you!” He doesn’t know who he’s yelling to, Jonathan or Dustin or God or himself, but it doesn’t  _ matter,  _ because he’s in shambles and he’s made up of screams and rage and this ever strengthening emptiness that soaks his soul. He’s nothing. He’s just grief. He’s just a broken little boy on the edge of a cliff, crumpled up and tossed aside and of no use to anyone, of no help to anyone, just hurting and bleeding and screaming out into the nothingness. This is the cliff Jonathan jumped off of. And fuck, but right now, Mike understands. He hates him for it, and he hates himself, but he  _ understands,  _ because a watery void would be so much better than this stupid fucking  _ rage  _ that does  _ nothing  _ and turns him into  _ nothing  _ and strands him here understanding the temptation of death.

He hates himself so fucking much.

“It’s not fair.” His voice cracks. “It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not  _ fair.”  _ His own words are blurry to his ears. He feels lightheaded.

He stumbles, landing on his knees at the edge of the cliff, and stares down into the air.

He could do it.

He could do it.

He could push himself just a little further and escape all of this. He could stop hurting.

He just has to push himself a little further.

He just has to lean his torso a little more.

He just has to let go.

He could.

He doesn’t, though.

Mike pushes himself backwards and sprawls out on his back to stare up at the sky. It’s big and blue and mockingly bright- how dare the sun be shining overhead? How dare the clouds be clear? The world is dark and empty and broken, but the sky is full of light, and it makes him sick.

Mike’s gotten sick of optimism before. Most of his life, really. He’s got this problem. He calls it his dark humor- this tendency to assume the worst, to lean into his own mind. Other people call it insanity. Mike’s always been a little insane. He hates it. He hates the way his mind fractures itself over the smallest of things, building up a puzzle that’s just a shade darker than everyone else’s; he hates the way he can spin a whole tragedy off just a look, just a word, just a sidenote that wouldn’t affect anyone else. He hates his gut instinct for trepidation. He hates the way his tongue always tastes like fear. He hates how tempting it is to push himself off a cliff. He hates that his only reason not to is Will.

Shouldn’t it be himself? Mike’s always been selfish. He knows he is. He doesn’t mean to be. It’s just that his mind is a little fragile, his soul is a little too scared, and he leans into self preservation even when only he sees the danger. He lies about simple things. He curses himself with inventions to get out of consequences that don’t exist. He thinks of himself, himself, himself, and how to get out of the danger, but he never gets out of the danger because the danger isn’t  _ there,  _ it’s just that he’s a little insane and he can’t see clearly. He’s a little insane. He’s a little broken. He’s selfish and he’s sad and he’s  _ scared  _ all the time and he doesn’t know what to do, because he always fucking  _ lies,  _ because he always says he’s fearless and runs ahead so that no one can see his face. He keeps everyone at his back. He doesn’t ever turn around to face them, because if he confesses his own broken soul then he might cry, and boys don’t cry. It’ll shatter his pride to hell if they see him cry, and his pride’s all he has anymore.

His pride and his Will.

Will doesn’t need to lose anything else. Not even a selfish friend with a taste for anger, a taste for fear. Mike is selfish and sad and scared, but for some godforsaken reason, Will cares about him, and he’s not selfish enough to not see that. Will deserves better, but for now, Mike is what he has.

Maybe someday Mike won’t matter anymore. But for now, for now, he matters to Will, and that’s enough. That has to be enough. Because if that’s not enough, he’s not sure anything is.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into the empty air. “I’m so, so fucking sorry.” He says it for Dustin.

Dustin’s not okay.

-

Eventually, there’s a door slam that shakes the whole trailer, and after ten minutes or so of shrieking sobs, the car starts up and drives away. Tommy shifts from where he’s been curled against Barb’s side and stretches, climbing to his feet. “Well,” he says with false cheer. “You hungry?”

She accepts the hand he offers. “Starved.”

“Excellent!” He claps, leading her around to the door and gesturing her in. “Ladies first. Now, let’s see.” He strokes his chin. “We have… whiskey,” he says, sounding tempted, but she levels him with a dark look and he puts his hands up in surrender. “Okay, no whiskey. We also have… Kraft mac and cheese? Do you like mac and cheese?”

Barb bites back a laugh at the near concern on his face. “Yeah, I like mac and cheese,” she assures him. “You want help with it?”

He tsks his tongue. “Do I want  _ help,”  _ he scoffs. “Ridiculous, ridiculous. No, no. You’re a guest, babe, just settle in.” He shoos her toward the couch. “It’s kind of broken but please ignore that. Let me make you a romantic dinner.”

“It’s noon.”

“You’re so high maintenance, God.”

“Pick someone else, then.”

“I already did? We both did?”

She pauses. “Okay, good point.” Tommy kisses the top of her head when she sits and heads back to their mac and cheese. Barb pulls her feet up onto the couch- it is broken, but the cushions are soft, and she’s comfortable- and watches him. She can’t help her smile. It comes naturally, finding home on her lips as he moves around in the slightly spastic way that she’s coming to associate with him, humming and muttering to himself, clapping a little at all his tiny achievements. He bounces on his toes with a quiet cheer when he puts the top on the pot, and her chest swells with something rich and sweet and soft. “Hey, Tommy?”

He turns easily. “Yeah, babe?”

Barb can feel herself heating up slightly at the nickname, but she doesn’t fold. “You’re cute,” she says. The fondness is leaking into her voice. She’s okay with that, though. “You should come over here, though. Standing this much can’t be good for your side.”

He sighs, but obliges, joining her on the couch. “I’m fine, you know,” he tells her. She hums.

“I’m sure.”

He leans into her side like it’s instinct, and she wraps an arm around him, pressing her nose into his cheek. “You’re comfy,” he says softly. His hands squeezes her knee. Gentle. Just possessive enough to make her smile against his skin.

“I want you to be comfortable,” she says. “You deserve to be happy.”

Tommy looks struck dumb. Her heart strikes a bit at that, but she just presses a kiss against his jaw and holds him. He’s precious. Sure, he’s annoying and he’s spastic and he’s a fucking idiot, but he’s precious, and she likes holding him. She likes kissing him.

She likes kissing Carol, too. She’d like to do it without any murder involved.

“They’re gonna be okay,” Tommy says, somewhat abruptly. Barb blinks. “You had that little-” he pokes beside her mouth. “Worry dimple.”

“Worry dimple?”

“Yeah.” His finger traces down to rest gentle on her jaw, touching her reverently, touching her in awe. She’s never been looked at like this, like he can’t look away, like she’s lighting up the wonder in his eyes. It warms even her frigid worry. “Your mouth gets all twisted up when you’re thinking. You get a little dimple.”

“Oh.” Her voice is a little breathless. “I didn’t- no one’s ever told me that.”

Tommy hums and shifts up so that he’s straddling over her, cupping her face. “Good,” he whispers. His grin flares back up, the familiar mischief softened by the adoration sewn into every inch of his gaze. “I’m gonna you feel special, baby.”

“Um-”

His breath is heavy on her lips. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah.” Her voice is failing her, but her whisper is apparently enough to convey her conviction, because then she’s tasting that dumb smirk, and she melts completely. It’s a familiar feeling. God, this- this swell of the affection up through her soul, golden and warm- it smells like strawberries, and it tastes like vanilla chapstick, and suddenly Barb is burning. “Tom,” she murmurs. “Tom- Tommy.”

He pulled back. “What is it?” There was a wrinkle between his brows. It was cute.

“Carol,” she says, her eyes still on his mouth. She licks her lips absentmindedly. She’s always liked vanilla.

“What about her?” He still looks concerned.

She pokes his lips. “Do you wear her chapstick?”

There’s a pause, and then he bursts out laughing. Barb grins up at him. His forehead drops down, pressing against hers. “You’re precious,” he says, sounding bright and amused and utterly honest. “And yes. I do.”

“Mm.” She slides her hands up his back, feeling his each of his spine under her fingers. “You also use her shampoo.”

“I do.”

“That’s cute.”

His grin tastes so sweet. “You think?”

“I think it’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen,” she replies, and drags him in. Vanilla tastes like heaven. Vanilla tastes like home. Tommy melts back into the kiss, his hands cupping her jaw, holding onto her like a treasure between his hands. She lets one hand fall down to his hip, mindful of his side. She’s never kissed anyone like this before. She’s never kissed anyone before, except for Carol in a gas station parking lot with blood soaking the air. She’s fairly confident in saying she prefers it like this.

The sound of the phone ringing startles them both. Tommy almost tumbles off her lap, but she catches him with a yelp. He snorts, getting up. “Damn,” he mutters. “Be right back, babe.” Barb lays her arm on the back of the couch, turning to watch him as he picks up the receiver. It’s fun to watch him. “Yello?” He blinks. “Oh, hey. Yeah, sorry, I was-” he glances over at Barb. “Uh, Barbara and I were… hanging out.” Barb snickers a little before she can help it. “What do you mean- it’s not weird!” He sounds offended. It’s kind of precious. “It’s not weird  _ anymore,”  _ he corrects himself. “God, Steven, haven’t you heard of change-” he cuts off, his voice failing in the middle of the sentence. His eyes go wide.

Barb half rises off the couch, something sick settling in her throat. “What is it?” she asks. Tommy’s lip work uselessly. His breath is shuddering. “Tom? Tom, what  _ is  _ it-”

“We’ll be right there,” he says, and then he hangs up with a slam of the receiver. His feet stumble, taking him backwards, thudding against the wall. He scrubs a hand over his face sharply. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck fuck-”

“Hey!” Barb crosses the room in an instant. “Hey. Hey, what is it?”

He swallows hard. “Ellie,” he says hoarsely.

Barb’s breath catches. “Is she okay?” she asks immediately, something frantic jumping in her chest. “Did they find her? Is she alright, is she hurt, did she say what happened-”

“She was passed out in my car,” Tommy says faintly. “Alone.”

Alone.

“Fuck,” Barb breathes, the word hitching on a half sob. “Fuck,  _ fuck-” _

“We’re gonna find her,” Tommy says faintly. “We’re gonna- hey, look at me.” He catches her face between his palms. His eyes meet hers, dark and firm and fiery. “We’re gonna find her,” he repeats, stronger. “She’s gonna be okay. Everything is gonna be okay, Barbie doll.”

“I told you not to call me that,” Barb whispers.

He leans their foreheads together again. The feeling on his skin on hers is soothing enough to steady her grip on her own heartbeat. “It’s gonna be okay.”

She takes a deep breath. “It’s gonna be okay,” she repeats, trying to believe it. “She’s gonna be okay.”

“Yeah. She’s gonna be okay.” Tommy slides his arms around her neck in a kind of hug. “We’re gonna get her back,” he vows fiercely. “No matter what I have to do. I’m gonna get her back to us. Okay?”

Barb laughs slightly, the sound hiccuping in the middle. “Okay, Tom.” She presses a promise of her own into his lips.

He smiles against it. “Let’s go get our kid, honey.”

“I’m her favorite mama, after all,” Barb agrees. Tommy’s arms slide away, but his fingers link into hers. “Oh, wait-” she pauses. He gives her a questioning look. She sighs. “It’s been a stressful day. You wanna grab that whiskey?”

-

Will finds him out at the cliff and drops down next to him. He’s got his knees tucked up to his chest. Mike tilts his head over, taking in his friend’s face. It’s creased with something like concern. “Hey. I love you,” he says.

Will hums. “Whatcha doin’ out here?” he asks. His foot presses into the side of Mike’s thigh. He’s always been good at that- little things to remind Mike he’s there. Not that he could ever forget about Will.

“Thinking,” he replies, because he doesn’t think the truth would be very useful.

Will hums again. Scoots a little closer. “I don’t think you were,” he replies.

Mike doesn’t say anything to that. He just closes his eyes.

Will’s hand cards through his hair. “You look terrible,” he says. Mike shrugs. “You’re losing weight, you know.”

“I know.”

“You haven’t been eating.”

Mike shrugs again. “Feel sick,” he admits, his voice small.

“Mikey,” Will says. His voice and touch are soft. “You gotta take care of yourself.” The silence stretches over them and the canyon again. It weighs on Mike’s chest so heavily that his ribs collapse inwards with it. “You’ve been stumbling,” Will continues. “You missed four problems on our math homework. You went to the AV room at lunch, but you weren’t there when I went to find you.” His voice breaks. “You weren’t there,” he repeats. His hand cinches in Mike’s hair. “You fucking scared me, man.”

Will doesn’t curse very often. He’s better at it than Mike is, though. Sounds more natural. Just another word. He’s been cursing since he was real little, since he was four or something like that, ‘cause his dad did all the time. It’s not some pre-teen rebellious angst stereotype like Mike sometimes sees in himself. It’s just him. It’s kind of nice to hear Will curse. Makes the world feel a little more natural.

Will doesn’t get mad very often, but Mike likes when he does. Will makes himself all timid and shy and drawn back from the world, drawn back from  _ Mike,  _ and it’s sad. Mike likes when he gets mad. It breaks all that bullshit fear down and brings out the unbridled side of Will that only he gets to see.

He feels special, but he also feels sorry, because Will deserves better than this. “I’m sorry.”

“I know. I know, you’re always sorry.” Will’s face is contorted slightly. His grip tightens again. It’s still comforting, though. It never hurts with Will. “You’re always sorry, but you never stop. You never stop. You always lie to me.” His voice breaks again. “Shit, Mike,” he says, part gasps, part laughs, part sobs. “Why do you always  _ lie  _ to me?”

Mike can’t breathe. Will’s hand in his hair loosens again. “I’m sorry,” he says again, and then he says, “You’re my best friend,” because he wants Will to hear it. Wants Will to know it. Will runs his hand through Mike’s hair all sweet. “Hey, Will?” he asks suddenly.

“Yeah?”

Mike stares up at him. “When we’re older,” he says, his voice tripping on itself, “When we’re older, when we graduate and all, you’ll call me, right?” Will’s gaze snaps down to his. His brow is wrinkled. “You’ll call me,” Mike repeats. “Or you’ll come visit or something. You’re not gonna forget me, right?”

Will blinks. “What the fuck are you on about?” he asks, but it’s gentle. “I’m never gonna forget you, Mikey.” He runs his thumb along Mike’s hairline. “Best friends, remember?”

“You’re my best friend,” Mike says.

“Mhm.” Will doesn’t smile, but the creases fade from his face. “And you’re mine. We’re always gonna be best friends. I promise.”

Mike nods, and then nods again. “Okay,” he breathes. “Okay, good.”

The silence falls over them again, dark and heavy and dense. It tastes like something unsaid. Mike closes his eyes and waits- Will only speaks when he’s ready to. There’s no forcing him. Will’s tricky like that. He’s quiet, he shrinks, but he doesn’t fold. He doesn’t do a damn thing he doesn’t want to. He’s himself and just himself and he’s okay with it. Mike can’t imagine living like that.

Finally, Will’s voice comes rolling like thunder over the canyon; low and soft, but crashing like a stone. “Dustin’s mom went to the police,” he says. “Reported him missing.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.” Will swallows hard. “Said she hasn’t seen him since last night. Said she didn’t even hear the door. He was washing dishes and then he was just- gone.”

“Will-”

“Kind of like,” and his words are coming faster, “Kind of like if someone was just driving. Was just driving, and then they were gone, and they were  _ gone,  _ and-”

“Will!” Mike heaves himself up, grabbing his friend’s shoulders. “Will. Hey. Hey. Breathe with me, okay? In and out.” Will shook his head frantically, his hands knotting into Mike’s shirt like he was clinging to a lifeline. “In and out,” Mike repeats. His face feels numb, but he forces himself to keep up the rhythm Will needs. In and out. Steady like a heartbeat. Steady like the rain. Steady like the flow of tragedies through this damned little town. “In and out.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, Will stops trembling. They sit there together in silence, staring at each other.

“Dustin’s missing,” he says, his voice weak.

Mike blows out a long breath. “Yeah. Yeah, he is.” He shifts, pulling Will roughly into his arms, overcome with the need to feel his arms around him, and they clutch each other in the empty air of another damned November day.

-

“Oh, thank  _ God-” _

Carol whips around at the voice, just in time for Barb to crash into her, collecting her into her arms. Carol is a little short for proper hugs with Barb- that’s okay, though, because she found out when Barb stayed over that if she drapes her arms up over her shoulders and hops, Barb will catch her, and she can just wrap herself around her and hide her face against her neck. “Hi,” she mumbles. “Hi, holy shit, hi-”

“Hi yourself,” Barb whispers into her hair. Her breath is shaky on Carol’s ear. “God, when you weren’t with Ellie, we were so scared-”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I-”

Steve’s voice comes from behind her. “Hey, uh, wh- ow!” Nancy hisses something. Carol peers back over long enough to see her drag Steve into another room to give them some privacy. If there’s anything the excessive space in the Harrington house is good for, it’s privacy.

Barb’s voice is low against her ear. “I guess he’s not up to speed, huh?”

“I guess not,” Carol replies softly. She hides against her neck again. “I missed you,” she mumbles, a little wistfully.

“I missed you too. I missed you too.” Barb kisses her temple. “Tommy wears your chapstick,” she adds.

It takes a moment to understand, and then Carol laughs. There are tears in her eyes. Happiness always does that to her. “Yeah,” she says faintly. “Yeah, he does, he does-”

Another set of arms comes crashing into the two of them, another pair of lips presses against her face, and Tommy’s voice is in her ear, saying, “Carol, Carol, God,  _ baby,”  _ and she’s never been more at home. Barb eases her down to the ground and she falls into Tommy’s shoulder, clutching at him like she can meld their skeletons together, half sobbing and half laughing and pressing kiss after kiss after kiss to his desperately murmuring mouth. She can taste her own name on his lips. She can taste her chapstick, too. “I love you,” he’s saying. “God, baby, I was so scared, I was so scared, I love you so much, are you  _ okay-” _

“I’m okay. I’m okay, I’m alright, I thought I lost you, I-”

He drags her further into him. “Please never make me let you go again,” he whispers.

Carol’s smile is shaking with tears, but she presses against his as well as she can. “You’re never getting rid of me,” she vows. “Not till the day I die.”

Tommy laughs through hitching breath and reaches one arm out. His fingers knot into Barb’s and he drags her in, the two of them encircling Carol, keeping her safe. “Till death do we part,” he says, sounding half amused but completely sincere.

Barb presses a kiss to Carol’s head. “You’re safe,” she whispers, and that’s like a promise of its own.

They don’t love her yet, and she doesn’t love them, but they don’t need love to be important to each other. Carol’s never loved someone like Barb but  _ fuck,  _ does she want to learn how. She wants to let it grow in her like a flower, grow in her like the sun. Bloom around her soul like dahlias and rest on her lips like the simplicity of sleep. Something gentle and easy and something she needs. She wants to  _ need  _ Barb’s love. She wants it to ingrain it so deeply into herself that it writes itself along her bones. She wants to make it part of her soul. She wants it. She  _ wants  _ it.

But for now, she wants her family. And this- this is her family. She kisses Tommy again and then twists around, leaning up on her toes to kiss Barb. “You’re both so perfect,” she murmurs.

“So are you,” Tommy whispers into the side of her neck. He presses slow kisses up it, tugging her earlobe between his teeth. Carol breathes in sharply. “You’re beautiful,” he says, reverent.

Barb’s hands come to rest on Carol’s hips, and she kisses her again, deep and sweet and strong. “You’ve gotten better at that,” she gasps. Barb makes a face at her, and then kisses Tommy, both their lips still brushing against her ear, and that definitely makes her feel some sort of way. “Okay, okay,” Carol says, even half breathless. Barb and Tommy split apart, both of them looking far too innocent. “Assholes. Now come  _ on,  _ Stevie’s already gonna be insufferable.”

“He and Nance are basically married, he doesn’t get to complain,” Barb says, but she pulls back and tangles her hand into Carol’s. “But yes. Where’s my child?”

“She’s  _ my  _ child.”

“Uh, I’m her favorite-”

“You’re her favorite mom,” Tommy cuts in. “I’m her favorite parent.”

Carol scoffs. “Oh, you fucking  _ wish.” _

-

His radio is gone.

Claudia stares at the empty spot on the shelf. His radio is gone. Dustin always keeps his radio with him.

She doesn’t understand. She knows it’s been hard. It’s been hard for both of them. Losing  _ everything,  _ all at once- it hasn’t been simple. Frank’s family won’t speak to them anymore, and Dustin misses so sharply that even she can feel it. Maia had been hell, and Aidan had nearly ripped her world apart, Frank had brought a sledgehammer swinging into her stomach, cracking her to pieces- but she’d had Dustin. She’d had her baby. She’d kept it together, because she had him, and he needed her, and now-

Did he run away?

Did he not need her after all?

Claudia sinks down onto her son’s bed, her body shaking silently. Her world is crumbling all around her. She just wants her baby back.

“Claudia?”

Her head comes up, and her breath shatters in her throat. “Becky,” she breathes. “Becky-” She stumbles up to her feet, and Becky meets her in the middle, the two of them holding each other. The broken world lays burning at their feet. “I can’t,” Claudia chokes. “I can’t lose another one. I can’t do it, I can’t-”

“I know,” Becky whispers. “I know.” She pulls Claudia in tighter. “We’ll figure it out,” she says, her voice firm. “Dustin is going to be okay.”

But his radio is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's a wrap! drop a comment, lemme know what you thought- YES i brought up my fun henderson family headcanons again NO you cannot stop me
> 
> thank you so so much for reading!!! i hope you're having a wonderful day, and i love you all!!


	11. inferno

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who knew glass could burn?  
> -  
> or; they're running out of chances, and they're running out of ways to play the game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: do not post this  
> me to me: but what if you DID
> 
> and so i DID
> 
> YES i did write this in the time between posting the last one and now NO i will not apologise........... sometimes u just gotta write 10k words in a day it's therapy

Steve and Nancy are in the living room, sitting on the couch with Ellie tucked between them. Tommy drops Carol’s hand and stumbles forward; Ellie’s up in an instant, hurtling across the room into his arms. He swings them around, clutching them tightly. “Ellie,” he murmurs. “Ellie,  _ sweetie-” _

“Papa,” Ellie whispers, and his heart breaks with love. He didn’t know you could learn to love someone this quick, but he never, ever wants to lose this kid again. He’d do anything to keep them safe.

He lets their feet back onto the ground, but lowers down onto a knee so that they can be at eye level. “Are you okay?” Ellie nods. “Good. I was so worried- did you get them? The bad men?” They nod again. “Okay.” He pets their hair, short as it is, smiling as well as he can. “I’m proud of you, Ellie. You did good. You did good.”

“They screamed,” Ellie whispered, their face contorted up like they were scared.

Tommy swallows hard. “I know. But they were bad. You understand, don’t you, sweetie?” They nod slowly. “I know it’s hard. But you had to. You did good. I’m proud of you.”

Carol kisses the top of his head. “Stop stealing my child.”

“No.”

“I hate you.”

He gives her a charming smile, and she wrinkles her nose up in reply, which is just cute enough to distract him from the conversation. Ellie makes a face. “Favorite mama,” they say, holding out their arms to Barb.

“Told you,” Barb says to Carol, sounding smug, and scoops Ellie up in her arms. Tommy rises to his feet, leaning over to kiss their forehead. They grin up at him, wide and bright and looking more innocent than he’s seen since they met in Carol’s kitchen. It’s been a short time, but it’s been a hard short time, and Tommy knows somewhere in his soul that this kid is part of the forever he’s building for himself.

One moment he’s smiling at Ellie, and the next, he’s being yanked into Steve’s arms, his best friend’s face pressed into his hair. “Tommy,” Steve whispers hoarsely. “Oh my God.”

“Steve,” he breathes. Something inside him he hadn’t even realised was hurting relaxed. “Hey, man. Hey.”

Steve lets out a weird sound, like he might be laughing and he might be crying and there’s no real way to tell which. “Tommy,” he says again. “Tommy-” his voice breaks. “You can’t get mad at me for skipping school and then vanish like that. You can’t do that. I was so fucking scared.”

“Hey-” Tommy wriggles back enough to look Steve in the eyes. “Hey. Look at me.” Their eyes lock. He’s never seen Steve look scared like this before. “It’s okay. I’m okay.” His side spasms with pain like a reminder of his lie, but Steve doesn’t know about that, and it’s okay, anyway. It’s okay. Everyone bleeds sometimes. “I know things have been shit lately, but you can’t stress yourself out. We got this. Okay?”

Steve still looks on the edge of crying, but he nods. “Okay,” he agrees, but then he pulls Tommy back into the hug. “Things’d be even more shit without you, though,” he mutters thickly.

“We got this,” Tommy says again. “We’re gonna be okay.”

Steve lets out another crying laugh. “Ellie- Ellie said-” he holds on tighter. “Jonathan,” he whispers. “Jonathan, Jonathan, Jonathan-”

“He’s alive?” Tommy asks, his voice faint. Steve nods into his shoulder. Tommy gives a shocked laugh. “He’s alive,” he repeats. “He’s alive, he’s  _ alive-  _ where is he? How- how do we- Ellie?” He twists to see his kid, held in Barb’s arms with Carol petting their head and whispering to them, looking very adoring and maternal and honestly it melts his heart but now’s not the time-

Ellie meets his eyes. “Jonathan,” they say firmly. “Friend.”

“Yeah?” Tommy pulls out of Steve’s arms and approaches the little group that owns his heart. “He’s your friend, sweetheart?” They nod. “Where is he?”

Ellie shakes their head. “Bad place,” they whisper. “Monsters.”

Carol clicks her tongue. “I knew I wasn’t crazy,” she murmurs, which is a whole  _ other  _ set of questions, but Tommy sets that aside for now to focus on Ellie.

“Do you know where the bad place is?”

“Dellrise,” Nancy answers from behind him. Her voice is strained. “It’s not…” she shakes her head. “It’s not  _ here.” _

Tommy frowns. “Okay,” he says slowly. “So how- how do we get there?”

“No!” Ellie bursts out, lurching, and he catches their shoulders. 

“Hey! Hey, hey, hey.” He smiles at them. “For Jonathan, okay? For our friend?”

Ellie still looks scared. “Monsters,” they insist.

Nancy comes up behind him. “Hey,” she says softly. “It’s going to be okay. I know Dellrise. I know it. I promise.” She finds the kid’s hand and squeezes. “We’re going to be just fine, Ellie. I promise.”

Tommy covers their clasped hands with his. “You can trust Princess,” he whispers, as if it’s just between him and Ellie. “She’s usually right.”

Nancy snorts. “Never thought you’d admit it, Hagan.”

“Well, even I have to face the truth sometime, Harrington,” he replies, smiling sweetly. She smacks his shoulder hard enough to send him stumbling. “Ow!”

Nancy just huffs and turns back to Ellie. “Do you know how we can get to Jonathan?” she asks, her eyes wide and solemn, fixed on Ellie’s. They have the same single mindedness, the same intensity, echoed in each other, and this- this feels like a turning point. Something clicks into place when Nancy and Ellie lock eyes. Something is changing. Slowly, Ellie nods.

“Bathtub,” they say, a bit shy. “Papa-” something like revulsion rolls over their face, and Tommy gets the sense they aren’t talking about him- “would put me in.” They shudder slightly. “Bad,” they whisper, and Tommy’s heart breaks all over again.

“I know,” Nancy replies, just as quiet, just as full of pain. “I know,” and she rubs a thumb over their cheek, her whole face broken and long with echoed grief. “I know you’re hurting. I know it’s bad. I can tell. But we need to get him back. We need to fix this. Then we can figure out how to keep you safe. Do you understand?” Ellie nods. “Good. You’re so smart.” Her voice is raw, but she smiles. “We’re gonna keep you safe, okay? We’ll be right there with you.”

“Hold my hand?” Ellie asks, their voice small.

Nancy nods. “The whole time,” she promises. “I won’t let go of you for a  _ moment.” _

Ellie hesitates for one more moment before they nod. “Okay,” they say. “Find Jonathan.”

Tommy has never seen Steve’s face light up like that before.

-

The screaming has died out.

“God,” Jonathan murmurs, slumping back against a tree. “Do you think-”

“Don’t,” Heather says sharply. “Just… don’t.” Things are quiet between them for a minute. “They sounded so young,” she finally whispers. Her face is haunted.

Jonathan hums, staring up into the glassy maze of the tree branches. “People usually do when they’re screaming.”

“You do know you sound like a psycho sometimes?”

“Shut up.” She laughs. It’s tired. It pulls a smile out of him anyway, though, and he caves. “They do say the queers are crazy,” he jokes, and Heather chokes on her own snort. “Oh, that was not- that wasn’t funny.”

“I thought it was funny!” she protests. “You put too little faith in your own humor. I mean it.”

“Thought I sounded psycho?”

“Yeah, but like…” she gestures vaguely. “In a funny way. A funny psycho.” He raises his eyebrows. “You should talk to people more often! They’d think you were funny,” she suggests. Jonathan cringes. “Oh, don’t give me that-”

“People don’t like me.”

“You don’t like people,” she points out. “They might like you more if you talked to them, but you refuse.”

Jonathan shifts uncomfortably. He likes Heather, likes her enough to tell her about himself, but he doesn’t even know how to tell himself why he’s so uncomfortable talking to people, so how could he possibly explain it to her. He settles on stiffly saying, “No, they wouldn’t,” and leaves it at that.

Heather apparently picks up on the end of the conversation, because she goes back to watching the little not-birds hop through the trees. Her lips are pursed with malcontent, though, and the rigid set to her shoulders makes something in Jonathan’s chest curl. He swallows hard, staring at the ground. The silence between feels stifling in his lungs.

But it’s just them. They’re in Dellrise, and the light is white gold on empty trees, empty beauty spreading all around them, and an empty silence is too much to bear. He can’t do it. He can’t do it.

He moves his hand slowly, nudging it against hers. She glares at him from the corner of her eye for just a moment before she lets him twine their fingers together. “You and Nance never would have worked out,” he jokes softly. “Between the two of you, Hawkins’d get burnt to the ground.”

“Are you calling me difficult?”

“More… high strung.”

Heather’s lips purse tighter, but he can see the mirth in her eyes and knows she’s struggling not to laugh. “You’re an asshole, Jonathan Byers,” she tells him, but she squeezes his hand, and he knows he’s forgiven.

“And you’re a menace, Heather Holloway,” he replies fondly. She wrinkles her nose at him. He wrinkles his back and relishes in her smile. They fade back into a silence that’s easier to inhale. Jonathan looks down at their clasped hands, his brow creasing. “I don’t… connect well,” he says, a bit tentative. “I mean, I don’t- I don’t know  _ why.  _ I just… never have. I don’t know how to talk to people.”

Heather rubs at his knuckles with her thumb. “You talk to me alright,” she says softly.

He snorts. “You’re a special case. Normally-” he laughs darkly. “Most people I talk to probably celebrated,” he mutters.

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

“Jonathan-”

“No, just-” he cuts her off, squeezing his eyes shut. “Don’t lie to me, okay? I know I’m not- I’m not the best guy. I’m standoffish, and I snap at people, and I-I’m kind of fucked up, and I know that! I’m not nice! I’m not cool! I’m not-” he struggles for the words. “I’m not  _ anything,”  _ he decides, his voice flooding out like a cresting wave, collapsing under its own rising volume into exhaustion. “I’m just…” he shrugs. “I’m just me. People don’t not like me because I’m rude or because I’m quiet or because I’m not funny. I’m rude and I’m quiet and I’m not funny and people don’t like me. It’s all the same. They don’t like me because I’m me. I can’t- I can’t change that.”

It feels like more of a confession than it is. He feels empty, like he’s torn out a piece of himself by gutting himself like that. He swallows hard and stares at the ground with his eyes burning.

Heather squeezes his hand. “Jonathan.” He looks up at her slowly. Her eyes are steel. “Would you have done it?” she asks. Her voice is low, rough with some emotion he can’t identify.

“Done what?” She stares at him, and it clicks. “Oh.  _ Oh.  _ No. No, I wouldn’t, I-” he bites his lip, his eyes burning. “I wouldn’t,” he insists weakly. “My mom, and Will…”

Heather’s eyes are sad with something that’s deeper than sadness. “Jonathan,” she whispers.

He swallows hard and looks away. “I don’t know, okay?” The words are easier to say than they should be. “It’s like… it’s just easy to say I wouldn’t. Because I mean- I wouldn’t. Of course I wouldn’t. My family needs me, you know? But sometimes-” he swallows hard. “Sometimes I think about graduation,” he says unsteadily. “And I think about- about leaving. And I want to leave so  _ fucking  _ bad. I hate Hawkins, I fucking hate Hawkins, and I just- I’d have those nights, where I thought about it, and I’d remember that college costs  _ money,  _ and I don’t have  _ money,  _ and Will’s only three years younger than me, and there’s no way we can pay for two kids in college at the same time, and-” his breath hitches. “And if I leave- if I leave, then- then maybe things will be hard for them, and maybe they’ll realise they need me to come back, but they’d never tell me that, they’d just struggle and I couldn’t help and then what? Then what? So they need me and I’m not there? That’s not fair. I can’t do that. I can’t make things harder on them. And maybe- maybe I leave and it’s okay. Maybe they’re okay. But that just means that I spent so much time, and I sacrificed my whole childhood, and I gave everything I possibly fucking could, and it wasn’t- they didn’t need me. Maybe they don’t need me anymore. And it fucking hurts, because that’s- that’s the best case scenario! Either they don’t need me or they struggle without me or I stay. And maybe I should stay, but I don’t wanna stay, I  _ don’t wanna stay-”  _ His breath is coming harshly, scorching his whole body with each inhale. “I would rather die than stay,” he bites out. “And sometimes- there are nights when I think about it, when I think about all that, and I get overwhelmed, and-” he forces himself to push the tension from his shoulders, to loosen the suffocating he has on her hand. He swallows hard. “And I think,” he says softly, “I think, on those nights, I might have done it.”

The forest is silent again.

Slowly, Heather shifts, facing him. “Look at me.” Her voice is hoarse. Jonathan complies. Her hands wind tightly into his, holding on like the stars to the sky. “Jonathan Byers,” she says. “You are the single most selfless person I have ever fucking met in my life.” He snorts. “No. No, no, no. Don’t give me that. It’s not just with your family. I know you feel obligated. But everyday, you get up, and you keep going, and you take all the bullshit this town throws at you, and you’re still- you’re still  _ you.  _ And maybe people don’t like that, it’s true. But you? We need you. You’re kind, and you’re smart, and you’re unapologetic, and you stand up for what you believe. You’re  _ good.  _ And your whole world tells you to change, but you keep being you. You keep being kind. You give the world so much more than it deserves, so much more than it gives you, and  _ Jonathan-”  _ she makes him meet her eyes. “You don’t have to be needed to be worth it,” she tells him firmly. “And you don’t have to be the lynchpin to be needed. Maybe they won’t fall apart without you. That doesn’t mean they don’t need you.”

“But-”

“No. They don’t need you as a support system. They don’t need you as an income. They need you as a person, as a brother, as a son. They need you because they’re your family. I’m sorry, I am so genuinely sorry, that you have to sacrifice your childhood. I don’t pity you, I know you don’t want that, but Jon, honey, I’m  _ sorry.” _

He doesn’t know when he started crying, but the heat of his tears feels like hellfire, and his soul is stinging with something he’s never felt, and before he can pull away, he sniffs and manages a small, “Can I have a hug?” that breaks in the middle.

Heather wraps him up immediately. “You deserve better,” she says fiercely. “You deserve so much better.”

“I’ve got you,” he says, his voice sort of faint and sort of faded. She pulls him closer all the same. “You’re good.”

“I’m the best,” Heather agrees. He laughs into her shoulder.

The forest is still empty, but fuck- at least it’s empty with her.

-

Will leads him through the woods with a tight grip on his hand, leading him through the underbrush. They don’t really speak. Mike just holds on tight. The world is silent and small and bordering on evening, the low golden light snaking around and over them, making everything feel sort of hazy and soft.

Eventually, the Byers’s back door comes into view. Will pushes it open slowly, the creak echoing through the whole house.

“Will?” Joyce’s voice comes from the living room, and she rounds the corner, her eyes red and wide and relieved. “Will,” she repeats. “And Mike, oh, my babies-” she pulls them both into her arms, and Mike feels a little more of the tension leave his bones. “Oh, I was so worried,” Joyce whispers. “Are you two alright?”

Will smiles up at his mom. It’s too dark, too tired, but that’s just how Will smiles now. It’s becoming intimately familiar. “Yeah. We’re okay.” He squeezes Mike’s hand. “Just worried.”

“I know, sweetie,” Joyce sighs. They all stand there together in the hallway, huddled into each other, hanging on. They haven’t got much left, but they have each other, and isn’t that enough? Couldn’t that be enough?

The door to Jonathan’s room is standing open behind Joyce. Mike can see Steve’s jacket tossed on the bed, and he almost rolls his eyes, but then he sees Nancy’s socks, and he has to make a whole face instead. “Have my sister and her husband moved in yet?” he asks, half scathing.

“Aw, he’s jealous.”

“Shut the everloving swine tuckaloo up, Will.”

Will pulls back from the hug to give him a weird look. “Dude, just say fuck.” Joyce makes a noise of reprimand, but Will just makes it back at her, and she rolls her eyes, but she’s laughing. Mike’s always liked the Byers’s house. There’s a distinct lack of… not his house. Not his family. This is the family he wants to be in. This is the kind of family he’s gonna build someday, if someone ever loves him enough. A house where comfort is soaked into the floorboards and nobody’s afraid to turn corners. A house where nobody sleeps in the living room. A house where they love each other instead of just tolerating their joint existence.

Ah, pipe dreams. The fruit of the soul.

Joyce leaves them on the couch as she goes to make dinner, and Mike hesitates before pressing himself into Will’s side, pulling a blanket over the both of them. Will accepts it, even embraces it and pulls him in, but he has an odd look on his face. “You gonna tell me what’s wrong now?” he asks softly.

Mike hums. “Maybe later,” he says. Will sighs but accepts it, pulling Mike sideways into his chest and propping his chin on his head. It’s comfortable. Mike traces nonsensical patterns of the knees of Will’s jeans and listens to his friend sing quietly.

“Darling, you’ve got to let me know… should I stay or should I go…”

“Stay,” Mike replies, half mumbling. His eyes are heavy with a week of sleepless nights.

Will laughs quietly and tightens his grip. “Okay, Mikey,” he whispers. “I’ll stay.”

So maybe it’ll be okay.

Mike falls asleep in Will’s lap, and he sees Dustin in his dreams, lost in a glass forest and screaming, crying, burning like a funeral pyre.

-

It’s getting late. They’ve surmised from Ellie’s somewhat stilted explanations that the bathtub resembles a pool. Luckily, Steve has a pool. They’re still figuring out how to set it up, though. Barb and Nancy are in the kitchen, arguing about some sort of science thing and… salt? Maybe? Tommy’s kind of sort of completely lost. Steve and Carol are on the couch watching a movie, looking content. Ellie is tucked into Carol’s side, sound asleep.

There’s no room for him, but that’s okay. Tommy’s never really fit in around here.

He slips out the back door and shoves his hands in his pockets, looking up at the November sky. He remembers, back when he was real little, back before shit went south, they used to visit New York City in the summers. There were no stars there. It scared him when he was little, ‘cause he thought someone had stolen them, but now- well, now he just wishes he could see the skyline. The New York lights would be stars enough for him.

He sinks down next to the pool and lets his feet dangle in. The water’s cold. Shocks some sense into his brain.

He does that sometimes. He’s not sure what it is- his mind flips a switch, and suddenly everything’s fuzzy. Everything’s just a little removed. Pulled just a little too far back to comprehend, and he’s just behind a smoke screen, trying to be part of a world he can hardly process. He just goes numb. Floats away. It’s probably not normal, but it’s normal for him, and he doesn’t really mind. Keeps him from feeling too much. Tommy doesn’t really like to feel. It’s not his thing. He always does it wrong- feels too deep, too intense, too dark, and ends up drowning in an ocean no one else can even see. It’s bullshit. He tries to avoid it.

Like with Steve.

He leans back on his hands and lets out a long breath that lingers in the night air. Steve. His best friend.

It’s like his feelings! He and Steve are like his feelings. Steve is his feelings- just a little out of reach, and then sometimes close, all at once, and it’s overwhelming and he doesn’t know how to process it, except Steve is nothing like his feelings because Steve has never been comparable to anything at all. With his feelings, Tommy doesn’t have to lay awake at night wondering whether they really like him or not or if they just pity him because of-

Well. Because of everything. Because he’s just the pathetic little boy without a dad, with the mom that doesn’t care and the brother that cares too much about the wrong things. He’s just another screw up. A tale of lost money and lost love and saying goodbye to New York City. Just a Hawkins sob story to whisper about. Just a gossip piece.

Steve isn’t the type to gossip, but he sure is the type to pity, and sometimes Tommy feels  _ sick,  _ because he just wants to be good enough for someone.

And then he thinks about Carol and Barb, and his tense heart beats more kindly. Sometimes there’s a kind of care that goes deeper than love, that’s easier seen than explained, and it washes over him in tides when he’s with his girls. It’s not normal, maybe, but it’s good enough, and he’s good enough, and someday, when he can muster the words, he’ll tell them how much it means to him. For now, though, he just smiles up at the November sky and thinks that maybe, maybe, their eyes make better stars than any city. He burns so bright in that moment that he almost forgets about the burning in his side.

The blood seeps down onto the pavement.

He keeps staring at the sky.

-

“Fuck.” His voice is raspy. He can’t breathe, he can’t see- his hands are burning like angel eyes, and there’s something dead at his feet, and he  _ can’t breathe. _

His radio lies charred on the ground by his feet. He hasn’t burnt out of control in a long, long time, but he can’t stop and he can’t see and he can’t breathe and  _ fuck. _

The monster lies dead at his feet.

He’s stuck in this forest of glass, big and echoing and empty, half angel and half broken, bleeding and suffocating and unable to scream, so he squeezes his eyes and lets his feeble constraint fracture.

Who knew glass could burn?

-

He wakes up late at night with the blanket still tucked around him to the sound of crackling channels. “What’s goin’ on?” he asks, blinking the sleep from his eyes. Will shushes him, hunched over, tuning his walky back and forth. Mike stares.

“Are you there? Are you there? Code red. Over,” Will says, his voice low. Mike sits up, instantly more alert. “Wake up. Code red. It’s a Code red. Over.”

Lucas’s voice comes crackling through. “What the hell do you want? Over.”

“Fuck yes,” Will hisses, looking victorious. “Meet me down by Dustin’s house. Over.”

“Wait, what?” Lucas sounds as startled as Mike feels. “Will, what’s going on? Over.”

“I have an idea,” Will says. His eyes are gleaming in the dark. Mike’s not sure he likes the desperation that tints them. “We’re gonna figure this out. Over.” He switches off his radio and grins at Mike with too many teeth and too little humor. “My mom went over to yours,” he says. “Hopper picked her up. Something about Ms Henderson.” He hops up to his feet. “You ready?”

There’s something off about his stare, about his grin, about his stance, but Mike’s always been fucked in the head, so he swings himself up and grins back. “I’m ready.”

“Alright.” Will’s hand closes around the ax propped up next to the space heater and he swings it up over his shoulder. “Let’s fucking go.”

-

They’re still slumped over on each other when something catches her sense on the wind. “Shit,” she breathes. “Jon, do you smell that?”

He wrinkles his nose. “Smoke?”

They stare at each other.

“Shit,” he says, oddly calm. “Shit. Okay. Okay, uh-”

She can see the blaze, already spreading toward them. “Jonathan, we have to go-”

“Go where?” he asks, his voice arching half into hysteria. “Where? Where the fuck are we going to go? We can’t outrun a fire-”

“We can damn well try-”

“I can’t. I can’t.” He shakes his head. His shoulders are crumbling. He’s crumbling, right here, right in the middle of hell with her. “I can’t do this anymore, I’m so fucking tired-”

“Jonathan, please-” she begs, her voice breaking, but he shakes his head again.

“I can’t,” he whispers. “I’m too tired. I can’t run anymore, I just can’t. I just can’t.”

She’s crying, she thinks. “Jonathan. Jonathan, don’t do this.” She tries to pull him. “Just come with me. Come on, let’s  _ run-” _

But the flames are here.

It’s almost beautiful, the way they rush like a tidal wave, spinning and sparkling around them, gold and red and lit up with vibrance. Jonathan’s hand is tight in hers, and he tugs her sharply- it’s too late to run, why would he decide  _ now- _

Except she’s still moving, and he’s not, and that’s not a human scream.

-

It happens all in an instant. He’s sitting by the pool, and then something’s looming over him, grey and ghastly and flaring with teeth, and he freezes before he can help himself. He just stares up at it with wide eyes, forgetting how to move, forgetting how to breathe, forgetting how to scream.

It lunges down at him, and he jerks on instinct, tumbling into the pool. He flails his arms, unable to tell which way is up, unable to see or hear and fuck, he’s lost, he’s burning, he’s underwater and he’s  _ burning,  _ and his eyes are swimming with every color he knows, drowning and drenching him in the implosion of his mind.

And then he’s bursting upwards, burning again, his leg enveloped in fire, the impact of teeth on his bone jolting through him, sending every nerve into an uprising panic, and his ears echo with a bang like the sky falling, and then he’s falling, falling, back into the water, back into the drowning flames of frigid color, back into the edge of death, and  _ fuck,  _ if only his lungs would work, if only he could make them draw in water and end this whole damn thing-

Arms loop under his shoulders and heave him up out of the pool. He doesn’t start screaming until he hits the ground.

“Tommy! Tommy, Tommy, it’s me, it’s me-”

“My leg,” he half-sobs, “My leg, fuck, my leg-”

“I know. I know.” A hand cups his face. “Hey, hey, Tommy, please breathe, please breathe for me.”

“I don’t wanna- I don’t wanna-” he does anyway, heaving in a shuddering breath. It jolts through his whole body, and his stomach revolts as he doubles up, retching. He doesn’t vomit, but he can’t stop convulsing, twitching all over with aftershocks. Oxygen feels like acid in his lungs. “I wanna die,” he says miserably, crumbling down onto the ground again. His hands are shaking like an earthquake.

Nancy kneels above him, her wet hair hanging around her face. “Yeah, well, you’re not allowed to,” she tells him. “Shit, Tommy. Why didn’t you tell us you were hurt?”

He shrugs. “Didn’t think it mattered,” he mutters. “Everyone bleeds sometimes.”

Nancy purses her lips. “Well,” she says, sounding a little terse. “You still tell us. You always tell us. Just because it happens to everyone doesn’t mean it’s okay.” She helps him sit up, rubbing at his back. Tommy just leans into her side, feeling fatigue swell up in his bones.

The sound of the door slamming open makes him jolt. “I heard a gun-  _ Tommy?” _

“A gun?” Tommy asks. Oh. The bang. “Did you- why do you have a  _ gun?” _

Nancy shrugs, flipping her wet hair back. “Found it at the Byers’s,” she replies, all too casual about it. Nancy Wheeler is to guns as Tommy Hagan is to injuries, apparently- far too adept and far too comfortable. “Besides,” she adds, a little softer. “I needed it.”

“Why?”

She looks at him like he’s crazy. “Because he cares about you,” she says, like it’s simple; the echo of the girl he met in the library is there, a few days older and few years aged, with new certainty sketched into her eyes. She squeezes his shoulder. “And so do I.”

Normally, Tommy would react to that with some degree of emotional stability. But he’s soaked the bone and bleeding from his leg and side, frozen and lost and barely breathing, and he still doesn’t understand what happened but he  _ hurts,  _ and he’s so fucking useless but someone  _ cares,  _ and instead of acting rationally, he just bursts into tears.

He hears a soft murmur of voices, and then there are footsteps padding away and a familiar arm wrapping around him. “Tommy. God,  _ Tom-”  _ Steve’s voice is wrecked. “It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” Tommy clings to him like a child, hands balled up into his best friend’s shirt, bleeding and shaking and falling to pieces into his best friend’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he manages. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-”

Steve swallows hard. “I’ve got you,” he repeats. “You’re safe, I promise.”

“I’m sorry. I keep getting hurt and I- I just wanna help but I’m making things worse and-”

“You’re not making anything worse. You’re not,” Steve says. “We want you here. Do you hear me? We want you here. We want you to be  _ safe,  _ Tommy.” His voice cracks. “I want you to be safe.”

Tommy laughs into his shoulder, half deranged. “It should’ve been me,” he whispers.

Steve stiffens. “What?”

“It should’ve been me.” The tears are still tracking down his face, but he’s fallen into his laughter now. It’s easier to laugh the hollow feeling out than force it through his tears. “It should’ve been me. It should’ve been me-” he chokes on his laughter and crumbles, his forehead against Steve’s shoulder. “It should’ve been me,” he gasps. “It should have taken me. Jonathan didn’t deserve that, didn’t deserve it-”

“Hey, hey, no-” Steve pulls him back by the shoulders, eyes wide and alarmed, echoing with something deeper than fear. “Don’t say that. Don’t you fucking  _ dare  _ say that,” he says fiercely. “You don’t deserve it either.”

“‘M  _ useless-” _

“No. No. God no, Tom.” Steve heaves him back in, tightly enough to choke Tommy’s barbed wire laughter away. “You’re not useless,” he whispers. His voice is tight. “You’re my best friend. You’re good, Tom, you’re so  _ good.  _ I love you, okay? You’re my best friend. I love you.”

“I love you,” Tommy echoes. “I’m sorry.” He’s still shaking. He feels empty, like all his insides have gotten tugged out. He sniffs, burying his face into the crook of Steve’s neck. “Can we go back in?” he asks. He sounds small, like a child, but Steve just holds him tight.

“Of course we can.” He rubs at Tommy’s back gently, like he’s holding something precious, and Tommy almost starts crying all over again. “I’ve got you,” he says softly. “Come on.” He helps Tommy up onto his shaking legs, supporting him as he helps him limp towards the door.

In the surface of the pool, he sees a brief flicker of light, like a flash of flame, but he drags his eyes away.

-

She’s still moving, and Jonathan’s not, and she comes crashing down onto her knees on the dirt, gasping for breath. She can still taste the smoke under her tongue.

“Fuck,” she gasps. She staggers up to her feet, looking around at the trees.

The trees.

The  _ trees. _

“Fuck,” she gasps again. Relief and horror crash over her in equal measures, tidal waves that drag her back down to the ground as her legs give out. She stares at the dirt smearing over her fingers, dark and smooth and muddy and so familiar it’s foreign.

She’s crying.

“Fuck,” she says. Flames are dancing behind her eyes. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,  _ Jonathan-” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i should probably go do my actual homework now. definitely not gonna go write chapter 12 right now. absolutely not going to do that.
> 
> feel free to let me know what you thought of this disaster!!! love u all xx


	12. cardinal sins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Karen was ten, she saw a man die.  
> -  
> or; Will is burning, and Jonathan is drowning, and Heather is walking a tenuous line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hhhhhhhhhhh im so tired and sick and hhhhhhhhhhhhh BUT writing this brought me joy so ((: i hope it brings joy to you too!!!!

The Byers’s house is empty and still. Nancy’s stomach drops.

“Hey, are you okay, Princess?” Carol asks. Her voice is hushed, but it feels like a stone shattering the silence of the stars. Nancy shudders at the sudden exposure that cracks over her with the noise and grabs Carol’s wrist, ushering both of them quicker into the house. She flips the switch on, flooding the living room with light. The heater is still on. There’s a blanket crumbled on the floor, and there’s Mike’s jacket on the sofa, and Nancy can’t breathe. “Princess!”

Carol’s voice jolts her, and she shakes her head sharply. “My brother,” she says as clipped explanation. “He was here.” She doesn’t have to say more, not with the way Carol’s eyes widen. “I- fuck. Fuck. Okay. Focus.” She breathes in and out to steady herself. “I left my backpack here earlier, since I thought I was coming back-” she heads for Jonathan’s room- her room, really, Steve’s room, but she can’t think that right now- and grabs her bag from the foot of his bed. She breathes out a sigh of relief that chokes itself as she sifts through her things.

Mike’s jacket.

“Shit,” she breathes. “Shit, fuck-” she drops the bag and scrambles for the phone. Her fingers are trembling as she punches in Steve’s number, her lungs shuddering in her chest. The dial tone sounds like screaming in her ear.

“H-”

“Steve,” she says before he can finish. Her voice has jumped up in pitch, rapid and frantic, her heart beating against her throat like a running rabbit. “Steve, they’re gone.”

He’s silent for a moment. “Wait, you mean-”

“My notes. They’re gone. And Mike’s jacket is here, and I-”

“Fuck,” Steve hisses. “Fuck, okay. It’s gonna be okay, babe, just-” he takes a shaky breath that she can feel even through the line. “Well, why would Mike have wanted your notes?”

And that’s- that’s a good question, actually, and it stops Nancy in her tracks. Her eyebrows wrinkle. “Um-” It hits her all at once like a tidal wave, washing her in horror. “Dustin. God, Dustin, what if-”

Steve’s voice has fallen hollow again. “Fuck.” A silence stretches between them for a long moment, and then he breathes in and out, steady and slow. “We’re gonna figure this out. Just come here. Barb got the salt. Ellie can help us find them. It’ll be okay. Just don’t panic.”

She laughs as well as she can through a strangled throat. “Since when do  _ you _ give  _ me _ that advice?” she jokes, and runs a hand over her face. “Okay. Okay, I’ll be there soon. Just… stay safe, okay?”

“You too, Nance. I love you.”

She smiles before she can help herself. “I’ll see you soon, hon.” She hangs up and stands there for a moment with her eyes closed, trying to gather herself, before she turns around and sets her jaw. “Let’s go.”

“Okay,” Carol says. She looks confused, but she takes Nancy’s hand and squeezes it. “Let’s do this thing.”

-

The notebook is spread open in front of them on the grass of the Hendersons’ backyard, the light of Lucas’s flashlight cutting over them. Will trails his finger down the page. His eyes pause in the same spot again.  _ Jonathan.  _ His chest caves in on itself, but the rush of destruction floods him with a motivating kind of pain, one that makes his bared heart beat with burning wrath.

He doesn’t want a fucking funeral. He wants a monster to hate.

The demon in his head isn’t Jonathan, isn’t an older brother that didn’t care enough to stick around- the demon in his head lives in the forest, lives in the car, lives in the water, lives in the Hendersons’ walls. The demon in his head lives in the blue pen scrawled in Nancy’s notebook- it has no face, it has no home, it has a taste for blood. It hunts and maybe it doesn’t even exist, but it exists enough to kill an older brother that didn’t lie.

If it exists enough to kill, it exists enough to die, and Will’s bared heart is burning to bring it to its grave.

Lucas and Mike glance at each over his back. The flashlight wavers. “Are you in this or not?” Will snaps. “Come on, guys. Don’t you get it? We can make this better. We can- we can stop this. Doesn’t Dustin deserve that?”  _ Doesn’t Jonathan?  _ He doesn’t add it because he can’t say the name yet, but he knows they hear it anyway. “We already failed him once,” he adds, his voice quiet.

It’s a low blow, but it works. Lucas’s grip on the flashlight steadies as he sets his jaw. Mike rises up to his feet. “Alright,” he declares, that familiar fire flaring in his eyes and voice. This Mike- full of anger, full of pride, building himself up from the ruins of fear into a catalyst- this is the Mike that Will is proud to stand beside. He rises up next to him, nonsensically feeling like grinning. “If we’re gonna do this, we have to do it right.”

“It can sense blood,” Lucas adds. “So what, we set a trap and then… bleed?”

Will shrugs. “Just a little cut will do it,” he says. “If we can get it in place-”

“We can burn it,” Mike says, his voice hard. “I mean, this thing-” he scowls. “This is like a fuckin’ demogorgon. Fireball it.”

Will really does grin this time. He looks crazy, he knows, looks like he’s losing his mind, but if he’s going to lose his mind with anyone, it may as well be Lucas and Mike. (Dustin crosses his mind, and his bared heart gouges itself open a bit, but he pushes down the sting. Dustin deserves their grief, but he deserves their anger first.) He swings the ax up over his shoulder again. “We don’t know how hard it’ll be to hit it,” he says. His voice is loud, clear, ringing true from his chest; he doesn’t usually allow himself to stand this tall, doesn’t usually allow himself to bleed confidence into his voice, but right now, full of adrenaline and holding an ax, blazing with anger and ready to swing, he feels more like himself than he ever has. He sets the version of himself that he has lived in for twelve years aside and summons out the one that lives in his chest. The one that fights and screams and  _ kills  _ to get out. The little mirror of wrath that he keeps tucked away inside him.

Will doesn’t usually let himself be angry, but he always has been, and he’d rather burn himself away with it than keep two different hearts beating any longer. He’s allowed to be bitter. He’s allowed to be crazy. So fuck it- he’s going crazy.

“That’s fine,” Lucas says. He hops up next to them. His eyes are dark and hard, a harsh stone rising up through his face, making him invincible. They’re small, but they’re  _ angry,  _ and sometimes Will thinks anger is the only thing that matters. Anger changes the world quicker than any kind of grief or love. Anger is rationality. Anger is belief. To be angry, Will thinks, is to be  _ alive,  _ and so what if they’re only kids? They won’t be stifled out of living, out of fighting, any longer. This is their war now. They can pick their own damn battleground. “We’ll just have to keep swinging until we do.”

Mike surveys the both of them, thoughts churning through his face. He’s formulating. Will’s seen his face like that a thousand times during D and D, but now it floods him with a different kind of thrill. There’s a new energy in everything now. The fire inside his broken chest lights the world up brighter than it’s been in weeks.

This is who they’re meant to be.

“Will has the ax,” Mike says. “I’ll grab the old bat from Dustin’s room. The metal one. Lucas-”

“I’ll run back to my house,” Lucas interrupts. “We were gonna go up the lake to boat this weekend. My dad’s got gasoline in the garage. We can use that.” He clips his flashlight onto his belt. “I’ll be back soon. Get a plan together?” Will salutes, rolling his eyes, and Lucas jogs off into the night.

Mike watches him go and then turns abruptly to Will. “I love you.”

Will blinks. “I love you too,” he replies. Mike just nods. “Mike- Mikey.” He grabs his arm. “Don’t be like that, okay? I’m not gonna let you get hurt. I promise.”

“You can’t promise that,” Mike replies. “And you know if it comes down to it I’ll die for you.” He says it easily, casually, like it’s an undebated truth. And despite the way Will’s soul recoils, he knows down to his bones that it is- the bears walk and the birds fly and Mike Wheeler would die for him. He hates that he knows.

He presses his lips together and tightens his grip. “Don’t say that.” Mike opens his mouth, but he cuts him off. “No. No. Don’t fucking say it, Michael. If you ever say that again- if you ever say anything even  _ like  _ that again- I will leave you here. I will leave you for  _ good.  _ Do you understand me?” Mike’s eyes had gone wide, but he wasn’t pulling away. “You’re my best friend. You get me with guarantees or you don’t get me at all.” He knows he’s being harsh- he knows, goddammit, he knows- but he can’t stop himself. The bears walk and the birds fly and he needs Mike Wheeler to stay safe. “You’re not going to get hurt. And for God’s sake, you’re not going to die.”

Mike swallows hard. “Okay.” His voice is small.

Will’s grip loosens. “I’m sorry for yelling.”

“No, it’s okay.” Mike twines their free hands together and squeezes. “I just- I want you to stay safe too, Will. I can’t lose you.”

“I know,” Will replies softly. He squeezes back. “But- hey, look at me. Listen to me.” Mike meets his eyes. “We will lose  _ everything  _ before we lose each other,” Will says firmly. “I need you to believe that, or I can’t let you do this. Do you understand me?”

Mike’s breath comes out heavy and clouded in the November night. “I understand.” He pauses, and pulls his hands back so that he can throw his arms around Will’s shoulders, pulling him in tightly. “Thank you for being my reason,” he whispers hoarsely. Will’s not sure what that means, but he hugs him back anyway, because-

Well, because loving someone like Mike is crazy. But fuck it- he’s going crazy.

-

“So let me get this straight,” Joyce says. She’s pacing back and forth, her hair wild from her fingers. “You-” she points at Hopper and Karen, who awkwardly shrink back into the couch. Karen can feel herself cringing. “-gave a child to Steve and Nancy. And then they took the child.”

“Well, they didn’t  _ take  _ the child,” Karen feels the need to clarify. “We dropped them off. They’re at Steve’s house.”

Joyce pinches her nose. “You gave Steve and Nancy a child,” she says again. “And now- now! After giving them the child!- you’re telling me you think that the child has to do with my son’s  _ suicide?  _ Do you ever understand-”

“It’s not suicide.” The woman sitting at Claudia’s side hasn’t said much, and Karen jumps at the unfamiliar voice. Joyce swings around to stare. “I checked,” she continues, unphased by the litany of stares. “When Claudia called me. I knew it didn’t seem right.” She squeezes Claudia’s hand. “There’s a lot more going on here than you know. I’m not sure how to explain-”

Joyce’s voice is deadly calm. “How about you start with my son,” she suggests. “And whatever the  _ fuck  _ you just meant about it not being suicide when they found the damn  _ body-” _

“On the 11th.” Becky’s eyes are sharp. “Six days after he disappeared, on the edge of the quarry. On the edge of water that  _ wasn’t moving.  _ For God’s sake, dead bodies don’t move themselves- if Luke Sattler saw it walking his normal route, why the hell didn’t he see it before then? It wasn’t there.”

Claudia’s voice is numb. “My husband died in a car accident,” she says. Their gazes all snap to her. She’s staring at the coffee table. “A semi hydroplaned and flipped in front of him. He couldn’t stop in time.” Her eyes raise up to Joyce’s. “He should have been able to stop,” she continues softly. “But his brakes were cut.”

The living room is silent.

“My daughter went missing,” Claudia says, her voice hardening. “And they gave us a body a month later. But for God’s sake, why did it take so long?”

Karen’s ears are buzzing. She and Hopper exchange a glance. “Dennis Burgess,” he mutters.

Dennis Burgess, the Hawkins High tragedy. Moved to Chicago and shot himself- shot him in the backroom. Shot himself in his father’s office. Shot himself with his father’s gun. Shot himself and was found sprawled out on the ground with the gun still in his hand.

“Wait-” Joyce waves her hands a bit nonsensically. “What- what are you saying? Do you mean Jonathan-”

“Jonathan didn’t kill himself,” Becky says firmly. “Your son was caught up in something else. This isn’t his fault.”

“Damn government,” Claudia mutters, and Becky pats her hand comfortingly. Honestly, Karen is inclined to agree. Damn government. When have  _ they _ done anything useful? It’s been at least fifteen years, hasn’t it?

Joyce falls into the armchair like a puppet with her strings cut. She stares at them all with a face drained of colour. “Oh,” she breathes. “Oh, my poor boy-” she clasps a hand over her mouth. “My baby,” she’s whispering. “My baby, my baby boy-” 

When Karen was ten, she saw a man die.

When Karen was ten, living on her father’s farm, she saw one of the field help take up a pistol and hold it to his brow.

When Karen was ten, she saw a man pull the trigger on himself, and the instant the bullet exploded, the gun fell out of his hand.

Dennis Burgess, the Hawkins High tragedy. Moved to Chicago and shot himself and was found sprawled out on the ground holding a gun he shouldn’t have been still holding. Karen doesn’t allow herself to think of it often, but tonight, it rings in her head, and recollections strike her, over and over. The revelation is as harsh as a pistol shot. It tastes like gunpowder.

Dennis Burgess’s father was a government worker.

Karen’s hands and ears are buzzing with anger, with fear, with the ghosts in the walls of her house that are coming alive in the light of passing time, swelling up all at once from the mantle and the floor, filling the living room with the haunting echoes of what doesn’t exist anymore.

What dies doesn’t always stay dead, and Karen holds the deceased in her head, and Karen holds their redemption in the palms of her hands.

-

Mike finds a gun under Dustin’s bed.

He holds it in his hands almost reverently, staring down at the metal. Will hovers in the doorway, watching him. He flips it over in his hands a few times. “Why do you reckon he had this?” he asks.

“Dunno,” Will replies. “He’s from Ohio, right? It’s crazy out there.”

“I thought he was from Oregon.”

“Well-” Will pauses. “Well, he’s from somewhere. Oregon’s crazy too. Maybe his dad was into hunting or something.” That’s why they’ve got all the guns piled in their shed. Lonnie was big on hunting. And self defence, but they’ve never really needed that.

Jonathan needed that. Will’s fist clenches before he can stop it.

Mike nods slowly. “Right.” He doesnt sound convinced.

Will jerks his head. “C’mon,” he says. “Let me show you how to use it.” Mike follows him, still staring at the gun in his hands. Once they’re outside, Will tosses the ax to the ground and tugs the weapon gently out of his friend’s hands. “Here,” he says, something like soft. He holds it up, aiming carefully at the knot of a tree. “You’ve got to find your target. Breathe in-” He can feel his lip curling. Something about the weight of a gun in his hands curdles his soul a little. “Breathe out. Don’t shake.” He pulls the trigger, and the shot shatters the night as the bullet buries itself into the knot. He lets his hands fall.

Mike flinches. “Won’t the neighbors-”

“Not on this side of town.” Will hands the gun back to him. “People shoot at racoons and what-have-you all the time over here. Not everyone’s too fancy for it.” He doesn’t mean to sound bitter. Mike flushes a little anyway.

His hands are shaking as he aims, and Will frowns slightly. He shifts closer.

“You know,” he says softly, “The world’s a bitch.” He wraps an arm around Mike’s waist, not wanting to touch his shoulders and mess up his aim. “Really is.” Mike laughs shortly. “I mean, it does all sorts of things. Takes people away.” Mike stares at the tree as Will stares at him. The words under his tongue taste bitter. “It takes and it takes, and it doesn’t give back. Everybody is so fucking selfish. So  _ fucking  _ selfish.” Mike shudders. “They just expect you to do shit. They expect you to understand what you’re learning and doing and they expect you to know who to be. They expect you to fit into whatever they want and they don’t. Leave. Any. Room.” His teeth are gritted together. “You have to be perfect.” He leans in a little closer. “But you’re not.”

Mike fires.

The bullet hits the knot. Bullseye.

Will leans back, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Nice shot.”

Mike is still staring straight ahead. “What the hell was that about?” he asks, his voice clipped. “That speech?”

Will shrugs. “Anger’s important,” he says. He bumps their shoulders together. “Anger makes things easier. You can’t get better if you’re not angry about being worse.”

“Huh.” Mike studies the gun again. “Well. Think I should use this?”

Will grins. “Think you can kill a monster with it?”

“Think I can try.”

“Well-” he picks the ax back up and starts plotting out the space they have in his head. “What else can we do, really?”

Mike snorts. “That’s cheesy.”

“Mm. Help me get these branches down.”

-

Karen is holding the deceased’s redemption in the palm of her hand, and then she’s holding the deceased in her arms, and she has no goddamn clue what to do.

“Um,” Becky says, and it feels like the most intelligent things anyone’s said in a while. Karen stares at the burst open back door, and then stares down at Heather Holloway, passed out and smudged with ash, and prays for just a minute more of sanity.

Hopper clears his throat. “Wasn’t, uh- wasn’t the door locked?” he asks slowly.

“It was.” Karen yanks her head, gesturing him over. “Carry her upstairs. We’re taking Nancy’s bed again,” she says with a sigh. “We’ve got to stop collecting strays, my Lord- Joyce, call my daughter, please, and Becky- make some tea, won’t you? It’s in the third cabinet on the right.” She thanks God that Ted is out somewhere with some friend she’s never met, because Ted has never simplified a situation in his life and she doesn’t need the stress of his entire everything right now.

What a mess. What a right  _ mess. _

-

The fire is raging. It’s everywhere, it’s everything, but he’s crawled into an empty pool, and he’s not burnt yet. He doesn’t know if he will be. He doesn’t know anything, and the whole world is empty, but Heather is out. Heather is  _ out.  _ Heather’s going to be okay. He’s cold in the middle of scorching blaze, and he’s shivering alone at the bottom of an empty pool in hell, and it doesn’t matter, because  _ Heather’s going to be okay. _

He thinks, nonsensically, that he wishes Ellie were here. He wishes he could say just one more thing. Just one more thing. He doesn’t even know what. He just wants to be sure she’s happy. He just wants to ask if she’s happy.

He wants to see Will.

His chest caves in under that, though, so he just sighs and closes his eyes, leaning his head back. Underneath his eyelids, the world is dancing, the past and present and what never was all twining together. He and Will, young and laughing and just brothers, back before Jonathan realised what his place in the family was, back before he became the person he is now; he and Nancy, when they were ten, dancing in her backyard on the fourth of July. He’d twirled her around and both of them almost fell, and she’d laughed so hard she really did fall, and he’d taken a picture of her in the sun, grinning like the light would never fade. He wishes he could see Nancy grin like that again. He thinks of he and Steve- he thinks of a moment in precalc, where Steve said something dumb and he almost looked up, he almost met his eyes, but he didn’t bother. He thought of his back shoved up against the lockers, hands knotted tightly into his sweater, their faces inches apart, and Steve looking more upset than angry. Steve looking overwhelmed and brittle and  _ scared.  _ He wonders if Steve knows he looks scared. He wonders if anyone sees it but him. He wishes, in a vague sort of way, that he could see it again. That he could yank Steve close to him and see that fear in his eyes again.

Jonathan sighs, his head lolling to the side. His muscles are fading inside of him. He hasn’t eaten since he got here. He doesn’t have the strength to crawl out of this pool again.

God. At least he got to choose his grave.

He thinks of Steve again. Steve, and fear, and being alive, and how they were all really the same thing. He thinks of Steve, and Nancy’s distant voice echoes in his ears, and without warning he’s drowning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mhm <3
> 
> please let me know!! what you thought!!! this is beginning to wrap up, so hell yeah!! hope you're readyyyyyyyy


	13. cherry coke (pt. 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And _God,_ he can breathe.  
> -  
> or; They're going to kill the monsters, so what should they care if they find their reflections in them?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeahhhhh baby she is HERE it is the second last chapter and it... well, it exists <3

Nancy is a friend. Ellie knew this already, because Mama said so- she doesn’t know what to call her other mama, and she needs to figure that out, but it’s not the priority right now- but she knows it for himself now, with no doubt, because Nancy keeps her promise. Nancy crawls into the pool with her and holds on tight to her hand, whispering soft encouragement as Ellie takes deep breaths to steady herself.

And then she’s plummeting, and she clings on tight, feeling herself tumble sharply down into the blackness.

Her feet land on the bottom of the pool, and she stumbles. She’s out of her body, discorporated into something else, but she can still feel Nancy’s fingers holding on tight to hers. She allows that warm stability to drift through her, helping keep her steady.

Then she turns, and that steadiness is washed right out of her lungs. “Jonathan?” Her voice is smaller than intended. He’s slumped against the side of the pool, streaked with ash and grime and blood, his eyes closed, his face pale, and for a moment- for moment, she thinks-

And then he mumbles, “Steve,” and she feels her breath come back.

“Alive,” she says aloud, and Nancy’s hand squeezes hers.

A voice drifts in from the world she’s drifting out of. “Thank God. Can he see you?”

Ellie crosses the pool with careful steps and sinks down to her knees next to him. He looks almost completely out of it. His face is slack, his lips parted to draw in breaths that sound too hoarse, too short. She brushes some of his bangs out of his face, but he doesn’t seem to respond. “No.” She focuses, and the body she left behind squeezes Nancy’s hand. “Hold,” she orders, because she’ll need stability for this.

It feels like she’s tearing herself apart, but she plants her feet and lets herself tear, because it is worth it. She can hear herself screaming, but her throat isn’t catching on the hoarse sound, so maybe it’s just in her head, but either it is echoing back and forth and up and down and all around and enveloping her in utter cacophony, swallowing her up in a swarm of broken shrieking that comes from her mind, from her bones, from her body, and her vision peels apart layer by layer into shadow and fire and brimstone and blood, washing over her until she’s drowning.

And then something  _ wrenches,  _ and she is tumbling backwards. Water swells up and mutes the screams and she’s drowning, she’s drowning, and it’s very much for real-

But Nancy is still holding on. Nancy heaves her up, and her weakening grasp on Jonathan’s jacket slips away. Her mind is buzzing in the vacancy of all-consuming noise, shuddering weakly inside her skull. She whimpers, grasping on Nancy as tight as she can. The two of them are on the side of Steve’s pool. The gritty concrete digs into her arms. “Jonathan,” she whispers.

“You did it,” Nancy whispers back. Her voice is full of worship. “You did it, Ellie. You did it. You did so good.” She pulls Ellie in close. “Carol is going to help you inside, okay? She’s going to help you get cleaned up.”

“Jonathan,” Ellie says again, almost a whine. She wants to see him, she wants-

Nancy shushes her. “Hey, hey.” A kiss is pressed to the top of her head. “You can see Jonathan soon. But right now, you need to get some rest. He’ll want you to be safe.”

Ellie lets Mama lead her inside with gentle hands, leading her to the room with the soft bed, the big white sheets that swallow her up. She passes out as soon as her head hits the pillow.

-

Heather wakes up to her head splitting open, and she screams.

“Holy shit!” someone exclaims.

There’s a smacking noise. “Calm  _ down,  _ Jim, get yourself together-”

“Will both of you please- please. Oh, Jesus-” A hand wipes over Heather’s brow gently. “Sweetie- sweetie, can you hear me?”

Her breath is coming in and out harshly, sharp and shuddering and scratchy, but she scrambles into open arms, latching onto whoever it is. “Jonathan,” she sobs. “Jonathan, Jonathan,  _ Jonathan-” _

“Oh, honey,” the woman breathes. She allows Heather to cling to her. “What is it? What about Jonathan?”

“Fire-” she gasps out. Her head is twinging painfully in time with her heartbeat. “Was crying, he was  _ crying,  _ but he made me go, he wouldn’t-” she can feel herself crumbling down into sobs. “He wouldn’t let me bring him, he wouldn’t  _ let me-” _

The woman holding her is holding on tightly enough that Heather can hear the hitch to her breathing. “It’s okay, Heather,” she says, and her voice is shaking, but it’s soothing anyhow. “You’re safe now.”

“But  _ Jonathan-” _

“We’ll figure it out,” the woman says firmly. “I promise you, we will figure it out. Just… lay back for me.” She helps Heather settle back into the pillows, and she gets the first good look at where she is.

She blinks. “This- this is-” Her eyes trace over Joyce Byers-  _ oh shit-  _ and the Chief, for some reason, and Karen Wheeler. She laughs breathlessly. “Nancy’s room,” she whispers. Her eyes flutter. “Does she know ‘m here?” she mumbles. She’d like to see Nancy. They hadn’t spoken in a few months, but it was always nice. Nancy had a wit, a sharpness to her that cut Heather’s heart just right. She’d grown out of wanting to kiss her. There were other fantasies of other girls, other eyes to daydream about and other ponytails to think about tugging out, other hands to imagine holding, but Nancy was still  _ Nancy,  _ and there was a magnetism to her that caught Heather every time. Nancy made things feel pink.

“Not yet,” Karen replies. Her voice is gentle. “She’s at Steve’s.”

Heather snickers, but her face falls, unbidden, into a frown. “Jonathan,” she mumbles, and rolls onto her side. She snuggles down into the covers. “Can I have water?”

“Jim, go-” the two women start at the same time, but Chief is already on his feet, heading for the door. Heather smiles faintly. It swings open to let him out.

She blinks.

It swings closed again. Hopper is frozen, staring. Heather can’t quite breathe.

Slowly, she brings a hand up, focusing on the faint tug in her stomach she’d felt a moment ago. The door creaks open again, too fast, slamming into the wall and making them all jump. “Sorry!” she squeaks. “Sorry, sorry, I-”

“Hey, it’s okay.” Ms Byers lays a hand on her shoulder. “It’s alright, Heather. Maybe just… lay back down. Try to leave the door to us. Okay?” Her eyes are wide, her hand is shaking, but Heather obeys, laying back in the pillows. Hopper’s footsteps creak out of the room. She squeezes her eyes shut.

All she can see is Jonathan. All she can taste is guilt.

-

And  _ God, _ he can breathe.

The few times he’s dozed off recently, he’s been jerking in and out of it. It’s not really been sleep. Just tiny jolts where he forgot to be scared. The fear always came back, though, and he always came back awake with it. Now, though- now his eyes are heavy, and his mind is slow, and he’s warm. The bone deep chill of Dellrise has faded out of his broken body and left him sore but breathing. He’s breathing.

He shifts, rolling into the warmth next to him, and there’s a content kind of sigh. Someone’s chin tucks on top of his head, and he feels safe and tired and almost happy.

There’s another warmth that curls up against his back, and a soft voice in his ear that whispers, “Go back to sleep, Jonathan. You’re okay.” It’s almost familiar, but he can’t quite connect the dots.

“We’ve got you,” whoever’s holding him says. A soft kiss is pressed to the back of his shoulder.

It’s warm, and he’s safe, and he’s breathing.

He goes back to sleep.

-

The plan is both fairly simple and absolutely preposterous, which fits the situation pretty well. Lucas isn’t exactly sure what’s going on, and he’s slightly wary of the gun in Mike’s hands- mostly because  _ he’s pretty sure Mike doesn’t know how to use a gun-  _ but he’s got the scent of gasoline imprinted into his clothes and the baseball bat from Dustin’s room in his hand, so fuck it. Bring it on.

Dead pine branches are heaped together near the base of a tree. They’ve trekked out into the woods a bit, out to Birdfoot Pond, and right now Lucas is leaning against a tree with Mike as Will digs out a circle around the tree. To stop the blaze or something. Lucas is still a bit leery on the idea of starting a fire in the woods, but Will seems confident in his plan, and God forbid he gets between Will and his plan. Mike is watching their friend with an odd expression. There’s something dark in his eyes.

“Are you okay?” Lucas asks.

Mike’s expression doesn’t change, but he does turn his head away from Will for the first time in ages. “We’re about to kill a monster,” he says. “Why the hell would I be fine?”

And that’s- well, that’s a fair point, actually. Lucas shrugs. “It’ll be fun,” he tells him. Mike raises an eyebrow. “Or something. I’m trying to be optimistic, okay?”

“Dustin is dead.”

There’s a bone-chilling certainty to Mike’s voice. Lucas wants to argue, wants to say they don’t  _ know  _ that, wants to point out that they haven’t seen a body, so how can they be  _ sure-  _ but his voice fails him, like he failed Dustin, and he says nothing at all.

They’re going to kill a monster, he reminds himself. They’re going to kill a monster that deserves to die, so why does it matter if it’s not the only one? Why does it matter if the monster is them?

-

The house is settled. There’s a relief, a comfort, that’s impossible to ignore, spread through every beam and wall and board. Carol has been in Steve’s house a thousand times, but it’s never felt this warm. She and Barb had pulled Tommy between them on the couch and tossed their legs crisscrossed over his lap. Barb keeps pressing kisses to his cheek and temple- she  _ is  _ taller than him, like Carol had been wondering the other morning, which is pretty rad. Tommy is clinging onto Carol’s hand tightly.

It’s safe and warm and easy, but there’s still something hovering in Carol’s chest that keeps her from breathing all the way.

“Hey, Tom?” she asks softly.

He glances up at her. “Hm?”

Both of their gazes are heavy on her face. Carol can feel her cheeks tingling slightly, but she squeezes his hand and steels her nerves and leans in, kissing him as gently as she can. “I love you too,” she whispers.

Tommy tenses slightly. “Wh-” she cuts him off with another kiss, though, because she  _ deserves  _ her kisses, goddammit. “Babe-”

“Earlier today,” Barb whispers in his ear, and Tommy makes a noise of realisation before turning to kiss her.

There’s something indescribable in Carol’s heart when she sees Tommy and Barb kiss, when she sees the way Barb’s tense shoulders soften and Tommy automatically curls even closer to her, like he can’t possibly get enough, like breathing with her is the only kind of breathing he can stand. It’s bright and beautiful and blooms in her bones, in her blood, in every part of her, filling her up so richly that she can hardly breathe. (It’s joy, she realises, and isn’t that funny, that didn’t quite recognise it?) “You’re beautiful,” she murmurs without meaning to.

And then Barb leans over and kisses  _ her,  _ and-

Oh, well it’s better than something hasty on the fringe of a crime scene. It’s not edged with their own blood. It’s better than joy, better than fireworks, better than pancakes with strawberries and whipped cream. It’s better than coffee in the mornings. It’s better than her birthday. It’s better than everything and anything and it tastes like Tommy’s laugh. “You’re biased,” Barb tells her when they part.

It takes Carol a moment to remember how to speak, but when she does she pouts. “Hey, wait-”

“Oh, so you’re  _ not-” _

“No, I am, but it’s still objective-”

“You have a thing for us!”

“It’s called love, dumbass!”

“Well-” Barb hesitates. “Yeah. Okay.” She steals another kiss. “Tommy has a thing for redheads,” she whispers, and Carol breaks down laughing before she can help it.

Tommy looks offended. “I do not!”

Carol raises a brow at him. “Really?” She slides her hands into Barb’s hair, which is more for the experience of having her hands in Barb’s hair than to prove a point, but does help prove her point, so- ha. Multitasking. “You’re  _ sure  _ about that, babe?”

He opens his mouth and then closes it again, flushing a little. “I just have good taste in girlfriends,” he mutters.

“So do I,” Carol agrees, and kisses the laugh right out of Barb’s mouth.

-

And it’s burning, and it’s burning, and night falls.

-

When he wakes up again, it’s to the sound of quiet humming. He cracks open one eye to peer blearily up at the source- he has to do a double take when he does, his eyes flying all the way open.

“Steve?”

Steve’s humming stops and his eyes fall onto Jonathan’s face. They’re wide and bright and intense and full of something Jonathan doesn’t quite recognise. Something almost overwhelming. Something that makes his heart seize. “Jonathan,” he breathes. His hand comes up, hesitant, and brushes Jonathan’s bangs back. “Hey, man.”

Jonathan swallows hard. “Hey.” He’s never seen Steve like this. No smile, no smirk, just wide eyes and wet hair and slightly parted lips. He’s wearing an old t-shirt. An old Pink Floyd shirt.  _ Jonathan’s  _ old Pink Floyd shirt, because it has the bleach stain on the sleeve, and that realisation hits him in the chest so hard that his breathing hitches. Steve is wearing his shirt. Steve Harrington is here, brushing his hair back, staring at him and  _ wearing his shirt. _

“Heather said you were looking for me,” he says, because his mind is a little blank.

“I was,” Steve replies. “Don’t have to anymore, though. Unless you run off.” It’s not quite a joke, and Jonathan’s breath hitches again before he can help it.

He nods. His hand comes up and knots into Steve’s- his- God, who knew- shirt, holding on tight. “Um…” Steve’s hand threads into his hair tentatively. “Why?” he whispers. Steve is here, Steve is real. Jonathan is back and he’s breathing and Steve Harrington is wearing his shirt and everything is too quiet and  _ why?  _ All this, and this is the end, and for what? God, why?

Steve pulls in a breath. Licks his lips. Blinks a few times. His voice is unsteady, rolling shaky off his tongue, rolling shaky down Jonathan’s throat. “The news reporter said your name wrong,” he says. He sounds on the edge disgusted. “It wasn’t- she didn’t say it right.”

“It’s a simple name.”

“It’s not. Not-” Steve shakes his head. “She said it wrong,” he repeats, more vehement. His fingers tighten in Jonathan’s hair. “And Will kept singing that damn song, that  _ damn  _ song, and- do you remember a few weeks ago?” Jonathan stares at him. “We were in pre-calc,” Steve continues. “I said something dumb, I don’t know, and you- you almost looked at me. You almost looked at me that time. But you just-”

“I wanted to,” Jonathan interrupts. His voice is stronger than he’d thought it would be.

Steve’s thumb rubs at his temple. “But you didn’t.” His voice is fragile, soft, for just one moment, hovering the air between them, before he shatters it again. His voice cracks in two as he says,  _ “Nancy,”  _ and Jonathan’s heart almost stops. “Nancy,” Steve says again. “She- God, Byers, every day you were gone, every day, she’d buy one of those damn Cherry Cokes. Sometimes she drinks it, sometimes she doesn’t- there’s a bunch in your fridge now, ‘cause she’d put ‘em up- but she’d always buy that Coke, ‘cause she just wanted to feel close to you. And I didn’t mind, of course I didn’t mind, but-” There’s a tear caught in his bottom lashes. “But every day, it  _ hurt,”  _ he whispers. “It hurt. And it didn’t just hurt because she was hurting. It hurt because-  _ fuck,  _ Jonathan, it hurt because I wanted that. I wanted a Cherry Coke with you.”

“Steve-” Jonathan’s voice breaks. He can’t- he doesn’t- God, what does he say? “Steve, I-”

Steve shakes his head. “Don’t. I just-”

Jonathan doesn’t know what to do, but Steve is on the edge of pulling away, and he moves on instinct. He just  _ acts,  _ because he can’t let him go, not after that.

But Steve doesn’t tense up or push him away. Steve just makes a relieved noise in the back of his throat and accepts the kiss in all its lack of grace, clumsy and confused and  _ comfortable.  _ Jonathan had heard, somewhere, that kisses tasted like fireworks, but this one doesn’t. This tastes like warmth and vanilla and something so gentle that his hammering heart catches onto a calmer rhythm. He kisses Steve, and Steve lets him, and then Steve is kissing him back, is cupping Jonathan’s face in his hand and guiding the kiss into something softer, something more elegant.

The bed creaks, dipping down behind him, and Jonathan tenses, but Steve doesn’t pull away, so he lets himself stay enveloped in the warmth. God, but he’s worried for too long now. Doesn’t he deserve this moment of peace? Doesn’t he deserve Steve tugging him closer, Steve tangling their legs together, soft fingers running through his hair, a small hand rubbing up and down his arm? Doesn’t he deserve to be held? Doesn’t he deserve to be taken care of, just for a minute? He hasn’t breathed in so long. Doesn’t he deserve to spend his breath the way he wants to?

When they finally split apart, Steve is grinning so wide that Jonathan can’t help but grin too. They look like a pair of idiots, Jonathan thinks distantly, but then Nancy leans down from behind him and Steve cranes his neck up and they’re kissing and- oh. Oh. He can’t think of anything else. It’s just gentle, just a chaste thing, just a swift press that’s full of comfort and trust and something domestic that makes his chest turn gold inside. “Oh,” he says softly.

“Oh,” Nancy mimics. He pulls a face, but she just pulls one back, and Jonathan is smiling without intending to. “I see you’re just as socially incompetent,” she says. “Welcome back from the dead.”

Jonathan would be offended with anyone else, but Nancy Wheeler has always been something else entirely, so he just says, “I see you’re just as insufferable. I didn’t come back for  _ you,”  _ and hopes it’s enough to make her kiss him.

It is, and that’s where he finds the fireworks. Intense and bright and bursting, rushing through every bit of him, setting him on fire from the inside out and leaving him breathless as she pulls away. Her hair is soft. Freshly-washed, he’s pretty sure, which would explain why she’s in Steve’s old shirt- and  _ yes,  _ Jonathan  _ does  _ remember that Steve Harrington did Yearbook in the ninth grade- and smelling like Steve’s shampoo, and he’s kind of completely in love with her, but that’s nothing new. It’s just deeper now. There’s something about the way Nancy’s lips feel on his that takes an old feeling and makes it entirely, dizzyingly new.

Unfortunately, she punctuates it with, “No, you came back for my boyfriend,” and unfortunately, he’s not even annoyed. He rolls his eyes on principle, though.

“Woah, woah, woah,” Steve says. “If he’s not your boyfriend, what are you doing kissing him?”

“If he’s not  _ your  _ boyfriend, why is he in your bed?” Nancy shoots back, and huh, Jonathan hadn’t processed that, but he is in Steve’s bed. How interesting.

“If he’s not  _ your  _ boyfriend, why were you sleeping in his bed last night?”

“If he’s not  _ your  _ boyfriend, why are you wearing his shirt?”

“If he’s not-”

“I could be both,” Jonathan says.

Nancy kisses him again and says, “You are,” very sweetly. Jonathan means to make some kind of reply, but- she’s very pretty, she’s so very pretty, and he’s a little overwhelmed anyway, so he just kind of squeaks and calls it a day on that.

Steve makes a distressed noise. “Nance! You have to ask!” he reprimands.

“Why?”

“Because-”

“Do you want him to say no? You want me to ask so he can say no?”

“He’s not going to say no!”

“Then we don’t need to ask,” she says, perfectly smug, and Steve evidently gives up, because he just collapses down into the pillows again and shakes his head. Jonathan kisses his cheek to soothe the loss. Nancy kisses them both again- she looks a little wickedly please, leaning from one to the other, and it’s wickedly adorable- and then settles herself down on Jonathan’s other side, reaching over to tangle her fingers into Steve’s. “You need to rest,” she tells him.

“As if I’d move,” Jonathan replies. Steve laughs against his shoulder. Nancy’s grin brings the fireworks back, and vanilla lingers on his lips, and God-

God, he can  _ breathe. _

-

He is full of anger, and Mike’s blood is under his fingernails, and he doesn’t recognise the way he’s breathing.

But Dustin is gone. But Dustin is dead.

He presses his back up against the tree and waits to burn his anger down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> love you all so much !! please let me know what you thought !! jonathan is BACK baby and heather is the love of my life send tweet. hope you're all doing well!!!


	14. bittersweet endings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike remembers thinking, back someday when Dustin was still there, how cruel of a death sentence it is to be burnt. To be seared into nothing. To crumble the ash out of someone’s bones. He remembers wondering what it sounds like when a Demogorgon screams.  
> -  
> or; it ends in the middle of the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and... here it is. the last chapter. thank you so much to everyone who's read this. i wish i could explain how much it means to me, but i honestly don't know how- please just know that each and every one of you is appreciated and is loved. thank you, thank you, _thank you._ i've never completed a project like this before. it's just... really special. thank you all so much.

He ventures downstairs after a little while. Rested he may be, and Nancy tells him they got him some water while he was still out of it, but he hasn’t eaten in far, far too long. Jonathan is no stranger to nonconsensual fasting, but not for this long. He digs out a box of crackers from the back of Steve’s pantry and sits there on the kitchen floor with them. He longs for something more exciting, something with even a tiny bit of spice, but it’ll do no good to make himself sick. So. Crackers it is. Doesn’t stop him from eating half the box, though.

There’s the echo of footsteps, and his head jerks up as Ellie bursts into the room. Instantly, he’s on his feet, crackers forgotten. “Ellie,” he breathes.

“Jonathan!” And she’s running straight into his arms. He lifts her up and holds her, leaning back against the counter to keep both of them upright, feeling a part of his chest knit itself back together as she buries her face into his shoulder. “Brother,” she mumbles.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah. I’ve got you, Ellie. Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”

Carol comes in behind her. There’s an awkward moment of them staring at each other before Carol says, “What’s up?” and Jonathan is honestly just glad she’s not being mean. She’s calling truce? He’s cool with a truce.

“Well, I’m not dead,” he replies. “So that’s something.”

“Funny. I was thinking the sky.”

“We’re actually inside, so-”

There’s a groan, and Barb pushes past Carol into the kitchen, picking up the box of crackers off the floor. “Why are you all twelve years old?” she complains. It would be funny, except-

Except the world flashes black, and the next thing Jonathan becomes aware of is his own screaming.

-

Mike’s hand stings.

He’d wanted to do it himself, but Will hadn’t let him. Had said, “Please, I want to make sure it’s not too deep,” and how could he say no when Will said please? So he’d stood there and let his best friend slice him open, exposing his blood to the frigid evening air, and now he’s bleeding in the middle of the forest without a jacket. He’s cold, and he’s holding a gun, and his hand stings. But most of all, most of all, he just misses Dustin.

He’s been missing Dustin since he got the news. But right now, it’s as raw as the wound on his hand, festering and gaping against the inside of his chest, tearing his heart wide open. He might die in this damn backyard, and all he can think of is how much he wishes Dustin’s death could be reversed by his. All he wants is Dustin back. God. That’s all he wants.

Except not really, because he also wants to make Will happy, so he squares his shoulders and checks that the safety on the gun is clicked off.

Lucas swings the bat back and forth in his hand. “Are we sure it’s coming?” he asks, his voice trembling just slightly.

There’s a ripping noise, like flesh peeling sticky off of bone, and Mike tenses. That’s his only reaction, at first- it’s hard to react when it’s something this baffling, something this liable to blow his mind, something unique and uninvestigated. He watches in frozen silence as the tree peels itself open, pulsing like the inside of a bruise, parting with a gruesome wrench to unfold the monster from inside. And unfold it does, rising out and up and up and up, its claws thudding into the muddy forest ground. It hasn’t gotten a face, he notices dazedly, but if it did- God, if it did, its eyes would be trained on him.

And then the face blossoms outwards, teeth decorating it like dew on petals, and Mike moves without thinking. His hands come up, his fingers fire, his ears ring, and it’s in the recoil of the wraith head that he remembers how to manage his feet.

“Jesus, Wheeler!” Lucas yells in his ear. Mike’s whole skull is buzzing with adrenaline. He doesn’t spare his friend a glance, just raises the gun and fires again. He’s moving on instinct. An experience uncharted and a boy untrained. It’s cold and his hand stings and he misses Dustin, he  _ misses Dustin,  _ so he shoots and he shoots and he gives his mind to the ricocheting sound.

Lucas ducks in front him and Mike yanks the gun skyward to avoid firing at him. There’s a flash of metal, an inhuman yell, and Lucas comes stumbling back, colliding with Mike’s chest and knocking both of them over. “Shit!”

Mike aims and fires, but the monster is adapting, the monster barely cringes, just keeps advancing. Will yells something. He can’t tell what. His eyes catch on the ripple of the monster’s limbs tensing. He shoves at Lucas’s shoulder, sending him rolling away just as it leaps, landing heavy above him.

The claws dig into his wrists, and they  _ sting. _

The face blossoms like a deadly flower, and Mike is helpless below it, and he wonders,  _ is this what Dustin saw- _

There’s a flash of metal, and the monster roars with pain, rearing back. Lucas comes at it again, brilliant and bright and furious, a flurry of movement as he yells right back and swings again. It’s a good hit, right to the lower leg, one that has the monster stumbling. Mike scrambles up to his feet, but he’s hopeless to help unless he wants to risk shooting Lucas, so he stands in the middle of the clearing and he stares.

Lucas gets another good hit, one that knocks the monster back until its back is scraping up against the tree with the circle dug out around it, and yells, “Now!” He launches himself back, and Will comes swinging, swift and deadly accurate. The axe bursts through the beast’s skin. Mike can hear the thud of metal in wood.

It’s still flailing, somehow, its screeches turning plaintive, and Mike wants to look away. He wants to look away. He doesn’t want to see this anymore. He’s reaping the rewards whether he looks or not, so God, he doesn’t want to look, he doesn’t want the consequence of a memory-

Will’s face is stolid and set and covered in blood. He drops the match without hesitation.

The monster is still flailing, and it  _ screams. _

-

Karen knocks. It feels the most polite, considering it’s her daughter’s boyfriend’s house, and also Joyce and Hopper seem oddly scared of the door. Neither of them are the most social, so she supposes it makes sense. Heather, huddled between them, looks in even less of a mood to greet anyone. But it must be done, and so Karen does it.

The door swings open to reveal no one on the other side, and the first thing Karen hears is, “Ellie- Ellie, baby, you can’t keep doing that-”

“Tommy liked it.”

“Yes, but Tommy’s an idiot-”

“Hey!”

She glances back at her little group, bewildered. Joyce shrugs hopelessly. Karen sighs and steps hesitantly over the threshold, calling out. “Hello?”

There’s a soft curse before Nancy swings around the corner. “Mom! Hi!”

She looks… good. Better than she has in a while, actually- she’s wearing an old Hawkins High Yearbook t-shirt and sweatpants, with her hair tied back into a messy braid, a Cherry Coke cracked open in her hand. There’s somewhat badly done nail polish drying on her hands. Her makeup is cleaned off. She looks absolutely, utterly comfortable with herself, softened around the edges with happiness, and Karen- well, she can’t help but feel like there’s a ghost revived.

“Hi, honey. We were just wondering about-”

“Mrs Wheeler?”

Her heart leaps into her throat. A hand lands on Nancy’s shoulder, and though her eyes stay on her mother, Karen knows that spreading smile isn’t for her.

He looks tired. He looks  _ exhausted,  _ worn down and whittled at and wasted away, but he’s smiling. He’s wearing a sweatshirt that must be Steve’s, he’s wearing a new bruise under his eye and a deep scrape under his skin, but he’s looking tired and he’s looking at her. His eyes are open wide, bright and sparking with the same happiness softening the ridges of Nancy’s shoulders. There’s nothing deceased in his smile. There’s nothing but him. Just Jonathan Byers, standing in front of her for the first time in weeks, his hand laying gently on Nancy’s shoulder.

There’s a muffled cry behind her. She steps out of the way in time for Joyce to burst by. She catches her son in her arms, clutching him close, clutching him like she’s pulling him into herself, like she can tuck him away safe in her soul and never, ever let him go. “Jonathan,” she sobs. “Jonathan, oh, my  _ boy-” _

He’s holding onto her just as tight. “I’m back,” he whispers. “I’m back, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to-”

“I know, I know, it’s okay, honey, you’re  _ okay-” _

Karen’s not sure when she starts crying too, but Nancy tucks herself under her arm, face burying into her shoulder, and Hopper’s arm settles around her, holding fast, and she feels safe to sob, here in this house that’s so, so alive.

-

Mike remembers thinking, back someday when Dustin was still there, how cruel of a death sentence it is to be burnt. To be seared into nothing. To crumble the ash out of someone’s bones. He remembers wondering what it sounds like when a Demogorgon screams.

He thinks he knows now. The consequence of the memory hangs heavy in his throat.

They’re sitting together in the Hendersons’ backyard. Lucas is slumped over on his shoulder as Will kneels in front of them, bandaging up Mike’s wrists and hand. “You know,” he says abruptly. “When I was talking to Nancy, before we found the body, do you know what she said?”

Mike watches the bandage obscure the lingering proof of what he’s just done. “What?” he asks.

“She said,” Will answers, and the bandage gets tighter. “She said, Will, we’re going to find him. We’re going to find him no matter  _ what.”  _ Mike’s eyes flick up to him. “No matter what,” Will repeats. He swallows. “But this-” He finishes up wrapping. “I wouldn’t have chosen this.”

“None of us would,” Mike says automatically.

“Yeah. But I did.” Will’s eyes are too empty. “I took you guys out there. I- shit, Mike, I almost killed you.” His voice is fragile.

“It’s not your fault.”

The air is frigid as it settles over them. Lucas’s cheek is warm on his shoulder. He says nothing- he knows to leave Will and Mike their words sometimes.

Will takes Mike’s side, and then he takes his hand, holding it loosely for heed of the bandage. “Isn’t it? It was my idea. It was my plan. I-” he swallows hard. “I did this.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did. I know I did.”

Mike doesn’t know how to argue. Will always knows. He’s the smartest of all of them- he’s brilliant, even if he bites his tongue, even if he doesn’t always lend the answer. Will always knows. Mike can guess and fumble and try, but he’ll never be as effortless as Will. He’ll never be so certain of his own certainty. Will  _ knows. _

So instead of arguing, he just says, “I forgive you.”

The ghost of a smile crosses Will’s face. “Thanks,” he replies quietly. There’s a pause. His voice is shaking when he speaks again. “Do you think Dustin does?”

Mikes stares up at the starry sky. His hands stings.

“Yeah,” he answers. “Yeah, he does.”

He knows it. He hopes Will does too, someday.

The beam of a flashlight cuts over them, and he loses his grip on Will as his hands fly up to shield his eyes. “Who the hell-”

“Language,” Steve says. “Come on, kids. Places to be and all.” He pauses. “Shit, Will-”

“I’m fine,” Will snaps brusquely.

Steve doesn’t look convinced. “Your face-”

“I said I’m…” his voice fails, and for a moment Mike panics. Will rises slowly to his feet. “Steve,” he whispers. “Steve, Steve, I-” Steve nods. Will lets out a wordless cry and takes off running, throwing himself the few feet left between him and-

Oh.

_ Oh. _

“Jonathan,” Mike says numbly. The shock strips his expression away. “That’s- holy shit. Holy  _ shit.” _

“Language,” Steve says again. He’s grinning, though. There’s something queer to the expression (and yes, that’s his own little private pun). Something more genuine than the charming smile that Mike’s seen him wear before. He looks maybe a bit more bearable. Not much, but a bit.

“You’re an asshole.” He pushes past him, his eyes searching for Nancy. She’s up by the street, standing under the orange glow of the streetlight, and Mike has never known relief until he’s running, sprinting up the hill and slamming into his sister. Her arms come up around him, holding him close, and  _ fuck.  _ “I almost jumped off a cliff,” he says, because he doesn’t know what he’s feeling, but if he thinks if he had died without feeling it, his life would have been wasted. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I love you, Nance, I’m sorry-”

“I’ve got you.” Her voice is trembling a little. “I-  _ fuck,  _ Mike, I’ve got you, okay? I promise. I promise.”

Another set of arms sneaks around him. “Promise,” an unfamiliar voice echoes. Mike’s eyes snap open, and he’s staring at a round, pale face he’s never seen before. “I’m Ellie.”

“Hi, Ellie,” he says, because fuck it! He already killed a monster tonight. Ellie can’t be the strangest thing.

Nancy laughs, the sound choked, and kisses both their heads. “I love you,” she whispers.

Ellie’s smile is kind of pretty. Mike closes his eyes again and buries his face into Nancy’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of bittersweet endings. He can taste ash and blood under his tongue, but Nancy is holding him and Jonathan is back and he’s glad to be alive. His hand stings, but half the pain in his chest is beginning to ease. He’s still sore. He thinks he can start to heal, though.

Lucas radios them once they’re both supposedly “in bed”- Will had taken the actual bed, but he’s still awake, and Mike is sitting up against his dresser, messing around with some of his toys- to tell them he’d successfully snuck back in his window. They’re in the clear.

“Yeah, right,” Will says in response to that.

Mike says, “Goodnight,” and switches his radio off. Bittersweet endings.

It’s after Will dozes off that he shoves up his window and crawls out onto the roof to look up at the stars. Dustin always liked the stars. They dot the sky, dressing it up in diamonds, decorating the whole expanse like the first fallen snow. The world is dark and empty and broken, but the sky is full of light, even when it’s meant to be asleep. Even when the world is dead, the sky’s alive. How unfair is that?

Mike’s always been a little insane. But here, lying on his roof with the stars staring down at him with a beauty he’s too bitter to stomach, the swell of tears doesn’t feel like insanity. They gave Dustin their anger. Now, though, it’s time to give him their grief.

They’re safe, and he isn’t. It’s a bittersweet ending that doesn’t taste sweet at all.

-

His radio is gone.

-

He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t-

The monster is dead, but he’s all alone.

-

Hawkins wakes up in the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's a wrap! thank you, folks. that is the end of cherry blight!
> 
> yes, there's going to be a sequel. i'm not leaving this au off like that _that._

**Author's Note:**

> this baby has been in my draft for weeks now but she's finally clean!!! im sendin' her out
> 
> **hmu on tumblr @theworriedman to tell me why it's shit!!**


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